


A Strange Frost

by Gyre_and_Gimble



Series: Endgame Epilogue [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, BAMF Stephen Strange, Body Dysmorphia, Bruce/Tony if you squint, Emotional Trauma, Fluff, FrostStrange, Gen, Good Magic Boys, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Loki, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loss of Powers, M/M, Mind Reading, Mutual Pining, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Odin's A+ Parenting, PTSD symptoms, Physical Disability, Plot, Psychological Trauma, Re-learning Powers, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Loki/Stephen Strange, Smart Hulk, Sort-of Ragnarok non-compliant, Stephen Strange & Wong Friendship, Strangefrost, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Lives, Tony lives, Wong is a Good Bro (Marvel), loki lives, visual impairment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyre_and_Gimble/pseuds/Gyre_and_Gimble
Summary: Two years since Tony’s snap, and people have begun to settle into their new normal. For Stephen, this means continuing to ensure the safety of his planet - a task that becomes rather more complicated when the team realizes that some of the people they thought they lost were brought back. Thor wants Loki to come home, Bruce wants Loki off-world, and Stephen... Stephen isn’t really sure what he wants.
Relationships: Loki/Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange & Loki
Series: Endgame Epilogue [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902640
Comments: 31
Kudos: 178





	1. Nights Grow Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen was having a normal day - well, as normal as any of his days ever were. Then his phone rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of my other work, "Ill is it to Do the Wrong..." - if you want more context for what's going on here, check that one out - or subscribe to my Endgame Epilogue series!

The sun was rising on 177A Bleecker Street when Stephen Strange stumbled through a portal, grunting as his knees and elbows took the brunt of the blow imparted by the sanctum’s floor. A gurgling snarl and the sound of gnashing teeth followed close behind, and a backward glance confirmed that his pursuer was still very much intent on killing him.

Righting himself just enough to manipulate his hands, Strange conjured a bright-burning sigil at the mouth of the portal, and not a moment too soon. As the final lines of the sigil fell into place an acrid goo splashed across them, dissolving the symbol in seconds. Stephen cursed as he pulled the portal shut, just before the thing with sharp claws and murderous eyes could reach him. The resultant _whoosh_ of magic sucked the air from the room.

Strange’s ears rang in the sudden stillness of the sanctum’s foyer, broken only by his breathing. The adrenaline didn’t last long after his first deep breath, and soon he was little more than an exhausted sprawl of limbs at the bottom of a staircase.

The Cloak wriggled, caught between Stephen’s shoulder blades and the hard angle of the stair. He was hard-pressed to stifle a groan, instead mumbling, “Two seconds, can I just have… two seconds, please?”

In fairness, the Cloak _did_ give him two seconds – just long enough for Strange to take a new breath before he was unceremoniously swept up and sent flying through the sanctum. The panels of the ceiling blurred together, punctuated by the odd door frame or archway, as the Cloak carried his supine form through hallways and past wards until they at last arrived in Strange’s living quarters.

Once the door had been flung open and shut again the Cloak eased Stephen’s feet onto the carpet, steadying him when he lost his balance. A moment later Strange batted it away (“I’m fine, cut it out.”) and the Cloak settled next to the door, looking affronted.

Strange dusted himself off. “While I appreciate the speedy ascent –”

The thought was interrupted by the whistle of something moving quickly past his face. A last-moment spell kept the object from hitting the wall or floor. When Strange portalled the thing into his hand, he recognized it as the only viable sample of the viscous, corrosive saliva he’d managed to collect from the creature before he’d had to beat a hasty and none-too-elegant retreat.

Strange glared at the Cloak. “Seriously? You would risk us losing this, after all that? What’s got your stitches in a twist?”

The Cloak's collar dipped, as if to say, _“Really?”_.

Strange held out his hands. “What? We made it out just fine.”

The Cloak drifted sullenly over to him, raising its hem for Stephen’s inspection. He gripped the Cloak's edge and tugged it closer, only to have the Cloak bat itself out of his hand and swat his ear for good measure.

“Hey, hey,” he protested, “what’s gotten into you?”

The Cloak gathered up its hem, tucking it back behind the weighted clasps that kept it attached to Strange when he wore it. It gave Stephen the unmistakable impression that it was cradling something that hurt. He reached forward. “Come on, let me see,” he said gently.

The Cloak reluctantly drifted closer, hesitating before presenting its hem a second time. Taking it in hand, Stephen could see that some of the threads were still very slowly dissolving at the behest of the creature’s bile.

“Oh, buddy,” Stephen sighed, “I’m sorry.”

The Cloak rustled but otherwise gave no reply. Gingerly, Strange traced a finger across its tattered edge and murmured a few words. It was enough to stop the acid eating at the threads, but it left the hem frayed and discolored. Stephen plucked a hair from his head, twisting magic into it until it sparked. With a series of gestures, he smoothed down and reshaped the Cloak's hem, stepping back when his work was complete.

He smirked. “Am I good, or am I good? Hey, what are you – no, hey – _ow!_ How do you hit so hard? Did Wong sew coins into your lining or something?”

The Cloak floated haughtily to its hook in the corner, settling itself as Stephen rubbed the sore spot on his arm.

He considered his bed, neatly made and dressed in shades of green and violet, and came very close to giving in to the urge to fall into it for a few well-earned hours of rest. Instead, and cursing himself all the way, he removed and folded his robe and the sashes running over and under it, placing them all neatly on a low dresser before he set to work unlacing his boots.

Wong had once remarked that folding clothes was a comically pedestrian task for someone with a title like Sorcerer Supreme. Stephen had asked if Wong was offering to take up the mantle of Sanctum Launderer, and that was the day Stephen learned (somewhat painfully) how to magically dress, undress, and clean his clothes. Really, it made little sense that he would ever do anything else. It was faster, more efficient, less of a hassle.

But sometimes it’s nice to be pedestrian.

His hands complained about unlacing his boots, and he let them. Being annoyed meant being alive. Feeling pain meant being alive. There was a sort of peaceful –

_“FEW TIMES I’VE BEEN AROUND THAT TRACK, SO IT’S NOT JUST GONNA HAPPEN LIKE THAT, ‘CAUSE I AIN’T NO HOLLABACK GIRL –”_

Stephen startled and nearly wound up on the floor. He somehow resisted the urge to send that stupid StarkPhone to the mirror dimension, or Antarctica, or the bottom of the sea. The only way to get the infernal thing to stop ringing was to answer, so, half-dressed and with a single boot unlaced, he did.

“Stark, I swear on your life that if you don’t change that god damn ringtone–”

“Doctor Strange?”

Stephen froze. “Peter?”

“Y-yeah, it’s me, Peter – Peter Parker? I was Mr. Stark’s intern, and I’m –”

“Peter, we died together on an alien planet. I know who you are.”

Peter managed a sort of awkward relief. “Yeah, of course – of course, right. So, uh, listen… there’s been a-an incident, I guess. Yeah, let’s go with ‘incident’.”

Strange was re-dressed with a gesture, striding out of his chamber door with the Cloak following close behind. “What kind of incident are we talking about?”

On the other end Stephen heard raised voices and a series of crashes, the sound of metal on metal. Peter stuttered, “Can… can you get here, please? I think… I think Mr. Stark really needs your help.”

A pit was forming in Stephen’s stomach. He took his sling ring in hand. “Where are you, Peter?”

“Mr. Stark’s new place, in the mountains – Switzerland, I think? Hold on.” Peter’s voice was distant when Strange heard him say, “Hey, Dr. Banner – we’re in Switzerland, right?”

There was yelling, the sound of crashing glass, the percussion of plastic and metal doing things they probably shouldn’t.

“Doctor Strange, are you still there? I think I was right, but –”

Strange stepped through a portal and into the living room of Tony’s Salzburg estate. It was roomy – not like the place in Malibu or the penthouse in Manhattan, but enough to hold most of the Avengers in one central area. The main floor was about as open concept as it got, with a well-appointed sitting area close to a bar topped in black marble, behind which was a sprawling kitchenette. A wide half-staircase led down from the main floor to the frosted glass panels that marked the boundary of Tony’s lab.

“Doctor Strange!”

Stephen had the wind knocked out of him as Peter launched himself forward into a hug. The next breath Strange took escaped as a laugh.

“Peter, you’re a grown man,” he chided gently, hugging him back.

“Real men let themselves be vulnerable, Doc.”

Strange cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s true.”

He pulled back, holding Peter at arm’s length, and felt something cold settle in his chest. “Peter,” he said gravely, “who did this to you?”

The kid had a smile, Strange would give him that – a smile so sincere it could light up his entire face, even with a black eye and a split lip. Peter touched the marks as if he’d forgotten, wincing when his fingertips found the swelling over his cheek.

“Oh, um… it’s fine, Doctor Strange – it doesn’t even really hurt that bad.”

Strange couldn’t suppress the tremor in his hands. “Answer my question, Peter. Who did this to you?”

Peter flushed, frowned, ran a hand through his hair. “It’s, uh… well, it’s complicated. See, what had happened was, Thor came back from being gone in space for a really long time, and he was in bad shape – I guess really bad, because Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner put him in the soul forge that they modified to work as a cryostasis chamber, and Thor was holding this crazy thing that they didn’t know what it was, and when the temperature got really low, it – hey, Doctor Strange? You might not wanna touch that.”

An instant later would have seen Stephen with a nasty case of frostbite; his fingers hovered inches away from the U-shaped handle on the laboratory door, from which frigid air was falling in waves. It was at this point Strange realized that the glass walls of Tony’s lab _weren’t_ made of frosted glass, and that it was very, very cold inside.

Strange stood back, took a breath, observed.

Peter’s footfalls stopped just behind him. “Yeah, it’s pretty… pretty cold in there,” he finished with a shudder.

Strange extended his arms gently to either side, palms facing the lab as his eyes fell shut. “What happened, Peter?”

He heard Peter exhale slowly. “I mean, it seems like they’re mostly done fighting now,” he offered.

Strange kept his eyes closed, sensing. “Before that.” He detected four life forms: two strong, one middling, and one desperately weak.

“Right, right… uh, so, when they started to put Thor to sleep…”

A mysterious artifact. An explosion in the lab. FRIDAY’s alert, blasted directly into Peter’s room on the second floor, that sent him swinging down into the barn-sized first level. Tony and Banner arguing. A flash of cold that had frozen the laboratory doors shut.

Stephen frowned, opening his eyes and turning back to Peter. “That doesn’t explain how you wound up looking like you lost a fight with a school bus.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, directing his gaze to the floor. “It’s a new web polymer I’m working on,” he mumbled, “and it didn’t quite work...”

Strange directed his attention to the high ceiling. About six feet from the edge of a balcony connected to the second floor, wisps of torn webbing hung from the rafters, swaying in an air current.

Stephen said idly, “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

Peter looked back up at Strange, obviously terrified. “Doctor Strange, please don’t tell Mr. Stark. He told me not to –”

Stephen put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll make you a deal. Stay as far away from this lab as possible until I come back out, and I won’t tell Stark about your aborted experiment.”

Peter looked torn, but nodded.

Strange turned back to the lab doors and drew a vertical line with his hands, turned and folded threads of magic until they came together and formed a protective gauntlet around his hand. It was fortunate that Stark had opted for more manual means of ingress and egress in the new place. Those automatic sliding doors in the tower and at the compound were much more resistant to mystical manipulation.

In the lab, a few centimeters of frost laid over everything – every work surface, every tool and machine. The chill was bitter enough to cut through Stephen’s robe; he shivered painfully, hands already bemoaning the drop in temperature. He readied a pair of sigil shields, the crackle of his magic muted by the frost as he paced carefully forward, boots crunching softly as he went.

Strange recognized the soul forge when he saw it, but like everything else it was frosted over. What had Peter said? They’d put Thor in the forge, and then what?

A rustle and a pained grunt led Strange behind one of the work benches. He took a breath, readied his shields, and rounded the corner.

A mess of tangled blonde hair that turned out to be Thor was hunched forward on the floor, with Tony held to his chest. Strange immediately knelt to assess them. Before he could lay a hand on either, though, Thor grabbed hold of Strange’s wrist.

Stephen stilled. “Thor,” he said slowly, “I’m here to help.”

Thor’s eyes were open, but… blank, pale and unseeing. At Strange’s voice, though, his mouth twitched into a smile.

“Wizard,” Thor croaked, “you're here.”

“Yes, Thor, that’s right.” Talking meant breathing, and smiling meant muscle control, so Strange set to work assessing the patient who was unresponsive. 

Tony’s pulse was strong, and his breath was clear – no wheezing or sucking sounds. Great news. He had a number of small lacerations on his face and arms, but nothing more than a few centimeters deep and not across any major blood vessels. Tony's fingers were white at the tips, but his eyelids fluttered restlessly when Strange squeezed hard on a nail bed. No frostbite. More good news.

“What happened?”

Thor looked confused. “I don’t know,” he admitted, then smiled. “But someone might want to turn up the heating in here.” He laughed at his own joke.

Stephen grimaced. “Thor, please: tell me what's going on. Peter called and I thought I heard fighting. Is Banner –”

Something like realization dawned on Thor’s face. “Right, right,” he began, eyes fixed somewhere over Strange’s shoulder, “Banner had to help us get him into the chamber. Not so good at controlling his magic, it seems.”

Strange frowned. _Magic? Banner?_

He looked to the sealed-off chamber that slouched in the corner of the lab – a holdover from the old Avengers days, when they’d needed a place to hold people and things that generally defied being held on to. Strange approached slowly, muffling the sound of his footfalls as he went. There was a sort of frosty fog that hung in the air, limiting his visibility. That was the only explanation for his failing to notice Banner, green skin made dull under a layer of frost, until he was a few feet away from the containment area.

Banner was conscious, at least, rubbing his forehead as he sat slumped against the chamber. Stephen crouched down beside him.

“Hey, Doc,” Banner managed in a pained voice, “good to see you.”

“Delighted, I’m sure," Strange said flatly. "What the hell is going on?”

Banner sat up, only to groan at the sudden movement. “Yeah, yeah it’s the craziest thing,” he said with a wince. “We didn’t know what it was when Thor brought it in with him. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Strange sighed tightly. “Banner, if we don’t stop playing the pronoun game, I’m going to dig through your memories. It _will_ hurt. You _will not_ like it. Tell me what happened.”

Banner gave him a long look before reaching up to a touchpad mounted on the wall of the chamber. “Jeez, right to brain invasion,” he muttered, punching in a series of numbers. “Is that a sorcerer thing? Or just something you and he have in common?”

  
Strange rose to his feet before he had the opportunity to make good on his promise about the pronouns, though he was sure by now he knew to whom Banner and Thor had been referring. He watched as the frost on the wide windows of the cell receded. Peering in, Strange could make out a humanoid shape, curled up in the farthest corner with its head on its knees, arms clasped in front. As the frost melted back, the lights mounted in the ceiling began to flicker back on, leaving only the furthest corner in shadow. The shape lifted its head, dark hair falling around its shoulders and across its eyes, which were a virulent shade of red.

Strange’s hands fell to his sides, sigils sputtering out. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUR PRECIOUS BLUE BOY!!!
> 
> I've long thought that Jotun Loki is a tragically underutilized version of this character. So... here you go! :D
> 
> Also, I can't imagine Tony would ever deign to use an Apple or Android product - he could design something much better, with better security, and a variety of settings that would let him disrupt the lives of all the friends he's managed to foist the StarkPhone upon.
> 
> I'm definitely not the first person to think this up, though - shout out to all the other talented writers on here!


	2. Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a nice boy like you doing in a lab like this?

Loki stood slowly, trailing a hand on the wall behind him. He was thin, with lanky hair and tattered leathers, but even blue-skinned Stephen would know him anywhere. Stealing infinity stones, invading New York, impersonating Odin so he could rule Asgard in Thor’s absence – Loki was havoc incarnate. In Strange’s opinion the only thing preferable to his present circumstance would be his absence from Earth entirely.

He knew better than to judge on appearance alone, but even Strange would admit that Loki was a far cry from the viper of a man who had thought to stab him in the New York sanctum years ago. This Loki was all exposed ribs, bowed shoulders, haunted eyes that sank back into their sockets and hollow cheeks that sat dark under jutting cheekbones.

Strange stepped closer to the glass, and Loki did the same. Scanning the chamber’s exterior wall, Strange found an intercom with a set of buttons beneath it. He went with the green one and was rewarded with a burst of static. Loki flinched at the noise, covering his ears and retreating to the chamber’s shadowed corner.

When the noise receded, Stephen spoke softly into the intercom. “Loki? Can you hear me?”

Loki stilled, halfway to dropping his hands as he looked over his shoulder. Were it not for the sharp contrast of red eyes against dark skin and hair, Strange might not have been able to catch Loki’s nod.

Strange gestured vaguely at the lab. “Are you the reason it’s winter in here?”

Loki turned back around to face Strange and nodded again.

Stephen paused. “Have you considered… not doing that instead?”

Loki scowled, the movement in his forehead drawing Strange’s attention to the faint marks that laid in neat shapes across his skin. _Scars?_ he wondered.

Banner piped up from the floor, “I don’t think he can control it.”

A nod in Banner’s direction was Loki’s acknowledgment of his comment.

Stephen found himself frowning. “Why won’t he speak?” he asked of Banner.

Loki weakly threw his hands in the air, turning away from the window through which Stephen had been looking.

“No idea,” Banner admitted. “We got him in there, what, maybe five minutes before you showed up?”

Snow crunched under Thor’s boots as he joined the conversation, still holding Tony. “He only sleeps,” he said, looking somewhere over Strange’s shoulder, “though I do think it better to get him out of this cold.”

“He’s right,” Banner said, struggling to his feet. “Give him here, Thor.”

Thor looked offended, holding Tony close to his chest. “I yet have strength enough to carry a tiny mortal man, Banner.”

Stephen and Bruce looked at each other, Stephen saying, “It’s not your strength that’s in question, Thor. I’m more concerned that you’ll run into a wall.”

Thor’s expression was blank for a few long seconds. “Right, of course,” he finally said with a humorless laugh. “You know, it’s not so different from losing my first eye. Just… darker.”

Stephen side-eyed Banner. “Concussion?”

Banner shook his head, reaching out to take possession of Tony’s body. “No idea, but I didn’t see him hit his head or fall down.”

“Peter said there was an explosion.”

“Not a chemical one,” Banner explained as he put Tony over his shoulder and guided Thor towards the laboratory doors. “A little while after executing the cryostasis program, the forge started throwing errors. Next thing we knew the smartglass cowling shattered and the Blue Meanie was on the table with Thor.”

Strange held the door for Bruce, who guided Thor out of the lab before lowering his head and moving through with Tony. The worst of the frost appeared to be melting, puddling here and there in places that were a little too far from the floor drains. Stephen glanced behind him, regarding the creature in the containment cell. He had retreated again to the darker corner, but through the darkness shone two solemn red eyes, their focus entirely on Stephen.

~*~

“He can’t stay here,” Banner stated flatly.

Stephen lined up four glass tumblers on the marble countertop. “Tell me why.”

Banner sat back in a Hulk-sized leather chair. “Why? I’ll tell you why: he’s a magical menace with a penchant for ‘mischief’ that always seems to wind up getting people killed.”

Pieces were falling into place in Stephen’s mind as he gathered a few measures of whiskey from a decanter on Tony’s bar, magically drawing out four glasses’ worth at once and suspending it in the air. He smirked at the awe-stricken “woah” from Peter, who sat at the bar with a tablet – reworking the web polymer, if the blueprints thereupon were any indication. Orange light crackled as it wove through the suspended whiskey, closing around each measure of drink and depositing each individually into its glass.

Sprawled on the sofa, Tony groused, “Hey, Houdini – stop trying to seduce Peter with your magical wiles.” He raised the hand that had been holding a hot pack on his shoulder to point at the young man in question. “He’s a man of science and he won’t be seduced by your flashy witchcraft.”

Strange scoffed, reaching for the soda in the fridge. “Witchcraft…”

Peter’s eyes widened as he looked between the two men. “I mean… I could be seduced. B-by the witchcraft, I mean.”

There was a collective groan.

Peter sat forward, eyes alight as he asked Strange, “How does it work, exactly? Can anyone learn how to do it? How long did it take you to get so good at it?”

Tony dropped his head back on the arm of the sofa. “Kid,” he began, “I swear to god –”

Peter raised his arms in exasperation before Tony could say more. “I’m twenty-two! When are you going to quit calling me ‘kid’?”

The collective groan was louder, this time, and Strange spoke up. “Not helping yourself, here, Peter.”

“Yeah,” Banner agreed with a teasing edge, “and it’s not like you’ve got much room to talk, either, Strange. You haven’t even hit your midlife crisis yet.”

Strange’s brows knit together even as he smiled. “I’d say the end of the world was enough of a midlife crisis for me, Bruce.”

“What about me!? I was at the end of the world, too!”

Tony held up a finger and made a number of sounds that started and ended with the letter ‘z’. “Stand down, Underoos. Grownups talking.”

Peter made a valiant effort not to sulk, doubling down on the work in front of him, and Strange made a mental note to compliment him for it sometime.

“Can we get back on topic, please?” Banner asked.

“You know what I want to know?” Tony interjected. Bruce sighed.

Tony pointed at Thor, who was laid out on the living area’s second couch. “Why’s Thunder Cat over here suddenly blind? I send you out into space for not even a whole year, and this is the state you come back in?”

Thor smiled, staring blankly at the ceiling as he fidgeted with Mjolnir’s leather strap. “Many are the stars between your world and the place where I found Loki. My vision began to fail on my journey out; it was only thanks to Mjolnir that we were able to return to you.”

Banner eyed Thor carefully. “You seem awfully composed for someone who’s lost their eyesight so young – well,” he amended, “young for an Asgardian. You’re, what, 1,500?”

Thor shrugged his mouth. “Give or take.” He turned in the direction of Banner’s voice, raising himself on an elbow. “Blindness and other deficiencies are more common among Asgardians in their fourth or fifth millennium.” Strangely, he laughed, gesturing with the arm upon which he was not leaning. “But my friends, what reason have I to lament? It may well prove to be something that can be healed – and better yet, Loki has been restored to me.”

“That’s a really good outlook, Thor,” Peter asserted from the bar. “Sometimes there are things in life you can’t change, and you’ve got to make the best of them, right?”

Thor laughed. “Yes, just so, Man of Spiders.” He pointed at each of the spots from which his friends’ voices had been coming. “You could all stand to learn something from the young one. Direct your attention to that which it is in your power to change.”

Banner jumped on it. “Okay, sure, things we can change – how about changing where Loki’s hanging out?”

Strange washed his hands and collected four glasses of whiskey, delivering one to each of the men in the room. When he reached Tony, he put up a palm. “Don’t drink,” he said, “not anymore.”

Strange smiled, returning to the bar. “A wise choice,” he said. “Peter? Since you’re not a kid anymore, would you like a drink?”

Peter reached for the glass, but eyed Tony and Stephen warily. “Is this a test?”

“No,” Stephen assured him, while Tony said “yes”. Peter looked conflicted, then sat back, pointedly turning his attention to his tablet. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, nonchalant. “It’s the middle of the night, and I’ve got work to do.”

Strange looked at the clock: two-thirty in the morning.

To Banner’s clear relief, Thor resumed their conversation. “The matter of what is to be done with Loki is indeed a serious one,” he agreed, “but I’m afraid I can be of little help. I can offer no more insight than any of you into his state of mind, or his goals, if he has them.”

“He always has them,” Banner said. “Always. I think we need to be very careful of what we say around him. He could be listening in on us right now." 

Strange frowned into his whiskey. “If he’s unable to control what seems to be innate magic, I think it unlikely that he would be strong enough to eavesdrop from so far away.” He looked to Banner. “Unlikely,” he said, “but not impossible.”

Tony adjusted his arm, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “He tried to read my mind when he woke up,” he said, “but I don’t know if it worked.”

Strange sat across from Peter. “What was he looking for?”

Tony shook his head. “No idea. Felt like he was flipping through pages in a book. The last several years, at least.”

Whiskey burned smooth down Stephen’s throat. “He’s been all alone since the ship he was on was destroyed by Thanos. If this was him waking up after all this time, it would make sense for him to try and gather information any way he could.”

“Brain invasion,” Bruce grumbled into his glass.

Thor’s blank eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “If he truly is without the ability to speak…”

Strange finished the statement: “Then he’s lost his greatest weapon.”

Tony’s eyes were unfocused as he added, “He felt afraid. In my mind, I could feel it – feel him, before I blacked out.”

Over the next few hours, they pieced together what had (probably) happened:

If Loki had woken up without the ability to speak, he would have been scared, confused, and, as Strange had observed, felt that he was without his most valuable weapon. He also wasn’t woken up especially gently. In his panic he reached for the nearest person, who just so happened to be Thor.

Thor, of course, was unresponsive. Loki panicked, saw but did not recognize Stark, and used the only power he thought he might have had left to get into Tony’s mind. It didn’t seem that he’d done it with the intention of manipulating Tony; he’d just wanted information, anything to help him understand what was going on.

Tony had passed out at that. It’s a pretty invasive process, drudges up painful memories – and Tony has those by the bucketful. Bruce had been trying to figure out what was happening when Tony fell to the floor. From Banner’s perspective, there was an explosion that resulted in the appearance of a sapient life form that had hurt Tony badly enough to put him on the ground.

At this point, Banner had panicked – which only served to escalate Loki’s fear.

“In fairness to him,” Tony interrupted, “the last few times he saw the big green guy, he got the shit kicked out of him.”

Banner chuckled, muttering, “Yeah… ‘puny god’…”

Back in the lab, Bruce and Loki had struggled, the temperature dropping the whole time, and Thor finally joined the party, stumbling, mumbling, and reaching out for Loki. This distracted Loki enough for Banner to get him into the containment chamber.

Right now, they concluded, it didn’t seem like he was in control of his magic – Strange wasn’t even sure that’s what the frost was. It could just be something to do with him being from Jotunheim, or a freak reaction to the cryostasis modification to the soul forge.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Then Thor spoke up.

“He needs help,” he said softly, “our help.” He looked in the direction of Tony’s voice. “Is this not what you intended, Tony? To help us reclaim those we had thought were lost?”

Tony was quieter, these days. Oh, he still talked plenty; Strange would never dispute that. But his pauses were longer, and he took his time before opening his mouth. When he did, he said, “You’re right. This is exactly what I intended.”

Bruce was frowning plaintively but seemed willing to acquiesce in the face of Tony’s admission. Strange made a note to inquisit that dynamic at a later date.

“But,” Tony went on, “I’d feel better if we had a clearer idea of where his mind’s at. As in, does he still want to take over the world? Because that would kind of be a deal-breaker in the roommate category.”

Banner hummed, brow furrowed. “Hard to interrogate someone who can’t or won’t talk.”

Peter, who had been silent all this time, spoke up. “Can’t Doctor Strange use magic to do it?”

Strange opened his mouth but closed it when he realized he didn’t have a ready reply. Emboldened, Peter went on. “I mean, I’m not a magician –”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “Sorcerer."

Peter backpedaled, “Sorcerer – sorry. I don’t know a lot about magic, is all I mean – but isn’t mind reading a thing you can do? Maybe?”

Tony gave an appreciative nod. “Kid’s got a point.”

“Still not a kid,” Peter grumbled as he tapped away on his tablet.

Strange was silent for a few long moments.

“Doctor Wizard,” Thor began. Stephen cut him off.

“Just call me Stephen.”

Thor grinned. “Stephen, yes – if you would do this for us, Loki and I would be forever in your debt.”

With a sigh, Strange pushed away his glass, hardly touched. No drinking on the job. “If you can get the temperature above freezing, and he cooperates, then… yes, I’ll try to figure out where he is, mentally. I’ll need at least a day to prepare.”

Tony yawned widely. “Great, now that’s settled, I think it’s nap time. C’mon, Underoos – you’ve still got to clean your bogus webbing off the ceiling.”

Strange found himself laughing as he stepped through a portal and back into the foyer of the New York sanctum, catching only the start of Peter’s high-pitched attempt at an explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying so far! Next chapter is when we get into the juicy stuff: bad dreams, bad memories, and magical shenanigans.
> 
> There are so many moments in the movies where it seems clear, upon closer inspection, that Loki is acting suspiciously heroic - that, plus his tough guy act is an absolute façade. Ever notice how he's really not that good a liar?


	3. Cerebral Spelunking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his experience as a neurosurgeon, Strange isn't altogether comfortable poking around in the minds of others. But maybe it's worth it, for a chance to know if Loki is hatching schemes of conquest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see updates to this work AND the related one, "Ill is it to Do the Wrong...", subscribe to the Endgame Epilogue series! I'll be updating this one each Saturday, and the other work will be updated... sometime. Whenever I get it in my head I want to play with someone else for a while.

Digging through other people’s minds, no matter the circumstance, never failed to unsettle Strange. To say that he had misgivings about taking a trip into Loki's would have been a gross understatement - but, for the fate of the world, he could be persuaded.

Trauma is the wellspring of personal history, and so it was that Strange found himself in the fabled treasure vault of Asgard, torchlight warm on rough-hewn stone. He watched a much younger Loki grasp what Strange recognized as the Casket of Ancient Winters: once the source of power for Jotunheim and the Jotnar, its presence in Odin’s vault ensured Asgard’s place at the top of the Nine Realms’ pecking order.

Loki was tense, eyes a little wild as he approached the casket. Gripping it in shaking hands, his face went slack as his fingers began to turn blue and realization set in.

_"Stop!"_ Odin appeared at the other end of the vault.

By the time Loki turned to face Odin, the illusion of Loki’s pale skin had fallen away completely. The glamour returned after his hands had left the casket, but for a few brief moments Strange saw the precursor to the man whose mind he was presently inside: blue skin, lighter at this young age than it would be later, with eyes that weren’t yet red, but a burnt orange with wide, dark pupils. His lips were a deeper blue than the surrounding skin, and the raised markings that decorated his face had not yet come to stand out as clearly as they would when he grew older.

_"The casket wasn’t the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?"_ Loki said.

Stephen paced forward, watching as Odin struggled to keep himself composed. A pity he couldn’t tell what the old man was thinking. That’s one mind Strange would have loved a chance to get into.

Loki arrived at the base of the vault’s steps as Odin responded. _"No. In the aftermath of the battle I went into the temple and I found a baby. Small, for a Giant’s offspring. Abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey’s son."_

Strange circled the memory of Loki, confusion and anger warring for dominance on Loki's face as his breath came faster.

_"Why? You were knee-deep in Jotun blood. Why would you take me?"_

_"You were an innocent child."_

_"No, you took me for a purpose. What was it?"_

Odin was silent a moment too long. Loki’s voice was shrill, full of desperation and rage: _"TELL ME!"_

Stephen closed his eyes; Loki's anger was palpable, falling off of him in waves. Stephen had to stand back a few paces to get far enough away to breathe.

Odin spoke: _"I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance, bring about permanent peace… through you."_

Loki looked incredulous. _"What?"_

**_"But those plans no longer matter."_ **

Stephen felt something pricking at the edge of his awareness. This was why he was here.

Loki’s eyes flitted back and forth, his mind racing. He wore his emotions more plainly at this age; he was scared, confused, angry and bitter.

_"So, I am no more than a stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me?"_ His eyes were glassy behind his disgusted sneer.

_"Why do you twist my words?"_

_"You could have told me what I was from the beginning! Why didn’t you?"_

_"You’re my son… I wanted only to protect you from the truth…"_

Loki’s shoulders had begun to shake. _"What, because I… I… I am the **monster** that parents tell their children about at night?"_

At the word **_monster_** Stephen felt a prick, like a syringe in the center of his chest. This was a seminal moment, a cornerstone of Loki’s self-concept, and he made a note to examine it further outside of the present memory.

Odin’s protests were weak, his strength failing as Loki boiled over.

_"You know, it all makes sense now, why you favored Thor all these years – because no matter how much you **claim **to love me –"****_

There it was again – the jab of unresolved pain: **_claim. Claim to love me._**  
 _"… you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!"_

Strange froze the scene, putting Odin back on his feet and returning Loki to his position at the bottom of the stairs, fists clenched, eyes bright with tears, teeth bared.

He took a moment to consider what he’d seen and heard, tapping his knowledge of past and future events. If it hadn’t been for Thor going to Jotunheim that day, for taking the bait of a meaningless insult, Odin’s plan might have worked: Loki could have helped bring peace between two warring nations, perhaps even ascended to the throne of Jotunheim. He had a rightful claim to it, and the forces of Asgard to back it up. He would have had fame, admiration, his name and likeness glorified for centuries as he so desperately desired.

But, Stephen thought as he looked at the snarl on Loki’s face, that’s not what happened. It's entirely possible that Loki's megalomania would only have grown faster and made him more dangerous, had he been given such a chance at power. In Loki's mind, though, Thor’s hot-headedness and penchant for picking fights had cost Loki everything, and he resented him for it. Old news, but relevant nevertheless.

The emotions ran so high in this memory Strange hardly needed to look deeper, and so he moved on.

~*~

Peter and Banner were tidying up the lab when Tony walked in. “Is the wizard still in Oz?”

Bruce shook his head, depositing an especially jagged piece of shattered smartglass into the bucket in front of him. “Hasn’t made a peep. They’ve been in there for, what, Pete – a couple of hours?”

Peter wrung out a towel over one of the lab’s sinks. “Gotta be. They were in here when I came down this morning.”

Tony regarded Peter critically over a cup of coffee. “And what time was that, young Parker?”

“Seven thirty-five,” Peter lied smoothly. Tony let it slide; if he pressed the matter, _he_ would be the one getting asked about his sleep schedule, and he needed that like he needed another hole in his chest

Tony walked casually over towards the containment room, chancing a look through the glass. Strange and Loki were sitting each on either side of the cell, legs crossed, eyes shut, chins bowed to their chests. Strange’s hands were moving and making green and gold sparks every now and then, but otherwise all was still.

“He’s still blue, huh?” Tony remarked.

Peter began gathering up his wet rags. “Thor said it’s because he’s a frost giant. Aren’t they all blue?”

“Sure,” Banner said, “but he was raised on Asgard.”

Peter frowned. “So that’s why he’s only blue some of the time?”

Tony took a seat at a desk near Peter. “Far as we know, it’s a magical disguise. Thor calls it a ‘glamour’. Apparently, he had no idea what Loki was until that whole kerfuffle with Thor getting thrown out of Asgard.”

Peter looked like he wanted to say more, but instead got back to cleaning.

~*~

Stephen found a memory of Svartalfheim, the home world of the dark elves that were defeated at the Battle of Greenwich. Thor, Loki and Dr. Foster stood atop a steep embankment, perhaps three or four stories high. Strange walked among them like a shade, taking in the eternity of black sand and jutting rocks that stretched, barren and lifeless, in all directions. In the distance, Malekith strode out from his cloud catcher of a ship, accompanied by a sortie of masked soldiers and his right hand, Algrim the Kursed.

_"You know this plan of yours is going to get us killed,"_ Loki said conversationally.

_"Yes, possibly,"_ Thor replied.

Loki raised his hands, bound together with what Strange recognized as magic-dampening shackles. Thor’s eyes moved between his brother’s face and his hands.

Loki narrowed his eyes. _"You still don’t trust me, brother?"_

Thor’s face was bitter, resigned. _"Would you?"_

The shackles fell away.

_"No, I would not."_

Loki’s movement with a blade was swift and merciless. Thor tumbled down the hill, followed shortly after by Jane and his brother.

Strange frowned, froze the memory. He didn’t need the time stone to turn it back; the gestures sufficed to return the trio to their hill and the platoon of elves to the entrance of the valley.

He watched the exchange again. “This _was_ the plan,” Strange muttered. It made sense, really – what better way to gain an opponent’s trust than by mortally wounding a presumed ally? Strange was only surprised that it was Thor’s plan and not Loki’s. It struck him as odd that Thor would agree to a plan that dictated his stabbing, but in the grand scheme of things, what’s a single puncture wound, inflicted by a letter opener, to an Asgardian?

At the bottom of the hill, Loki’s show went on. _"You really think I cared about Frigga? About any of you?"_ Strange cringed at the swift kick he delivered to Thor’s face.

A layer of the memory was peeled back as Strange interrogated the emotional subtext, letting himself into Loki’s mind.

_"…You really think I cared about Frigga?"_

_**…I loved Frigga more than anything.**_

Strange made a note to retrieve that memory next.

Loki’s teeth were out. _"All I ever wanted was you and Odin, dead at my feet."_

_**…All I ever wanted was you and Odin, proud to stand at my side.**_

Thor reached for Mjolnir, only to have Loki take his hand off with a single downward stroke of his dagger. Strange winced. That had to have hurt.

_"Malekith!"_ Loki called, grabbing Jane by the waist and pulling her close. _"I am Loki of Jotunheim, and I bring you a gift."_ He threw Jane to her knees. _"I ask only one thing in return: a good seat from which to watch Asgard burn."_

Assured of his treachery, the elves took Loki at his word. Malekith and Algrim approached Thor where he lay, growling and writhing on the ground, clutching at his mutilated arm. Loki stalked behind Jane where she knelt in the dark sand, breathless, distraught, with darkened eyes that held an impossible eternity. Strange watched as Malekith summoned the aether – the reality stone – from Jane’s body, bringing her a few feet above the ground before unceremoniously dropping her once the task was complete.

_"Loki, now!"_

Loki’s hand extended with a flash of light, and the illusion receded – Thor had his hand back. Stephen stood back and watched as Mjolnir flew to Thor’s outstretched hand, directing a torrent of lightning at the aether as it was suspended in the air.

Strange slowed the memory to a crawl, looking for Loki. He had thrown himself on top of Jane, shielding her from Thor’s attack. That made sense: any plan Thor agreed to would have had to allow for the preservation of Jane’s life. Thor whipped Mjolnir into flight in pursuit of Malekith, while Loki and Dr. Foster remained behind.

_"Are you alright?"_

Strange turned his attention to the pair next to him. Loki was holding Jane steady where she sat.

Jane gave him a weak glare. _"Did you really have to stab him?"_

Loki smiled. _"We must all play our parts, mustn’t we?"_

Algrim hurled a singularity grenade back towards them, and once again Loki pushed Jane out of harm’s way. It was only thanks to Thor’s timely intervention that Loki himself wasn’t crushed into oblivion by a miniature black hole.

Strange turned back the memory, watched things unfold once again. As the singularity grenade reached its apex, Loki’s expression fell and he looked up. Strange watched his mind work, face carefully blank, for only a moment before he shoved Jane out of the grenade’s blast radius.

Strange couldn’t suppress an exasperated sigh. He held the memory in place. “Guys,” he said softly, bracing his hands in the air, “she’s not a sack of potatoes. Stop throwing her around.” 

He shook his head as he paced through the static scene, Loki suspended in the air, reaching for the ground beneath him as he was drawn inexorably towards an artificial event horizon. On Loki’s face Strange found not bitterness, not anger – he wasn’t even sure it could properly be called fear. It was open, unguarded, perhaps a little surprised.

It was as he looked into Loki’s eyes that Strange realized something: his first instinct hadn’t been to protect himself, but to protect Jane. It would have been easy to teleport far enough away, or to run, to leave Jane at the mercy of the singularity if self-preservation was his only goal. But he didn’t. He chose to sacrifice himself in the name of saving someone he barely knew.

Strange frowned, leaving the memory behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently re-watched all of the Marvel movies in chronological order - not the order they were released in - and was struck by how many of the situations in which Loki becomes involved see him act the hero... at least when no one's looking. There's just too much evidence in support of him **not** being a garden-variety narcissistic bad guy for me to just sit here and not say anything. 
> 
> This is especially true in light of the fact that there is precious little content for the Loki/Strange pairing - which I'm sure you agree is a f u c k i n g c r i m e.


	4. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are better left alone.

It had been hours, and neither of the men in the holding cell had moved an inch.

“What are we going to do with him?” Tony murmured into his hand.

“Which one?” Bruce asked.

“Loki, dumbass.”

“Jesus, Tony, I don’t know. It didn’t occur to you to wonder what would happen when Thor actually brought something back?”

“I never really got to that part, no.”

“How long do you think Strange is gonna be at this for?”

“Search me, green bean. I don’t pretend to know how Merlin does his tricks.”

“Have you _considered_ pretending?”

~*~

Loki wept openly when he heard the news of Frigga’s death, though not before applying a convincing illusion to the perimeter of his cell. Past the curtain of his magic, though, Stephen watched him implode.

He screamed her name, demanded answers from people and things Strange had never heard of, his face contorted into a rictus of desolate grief. He swore revenge on Odin, on Thor, on the universe. _"Give her back,"_ he cried, over and over, _"give her back to me."_ Figs and pomegranates left bloody streaks where they had been discarded on – or hurled at – the floor.

Strange righted a chair and sat, observing.

Most everything you need to know about a person can be found in the manner of their grieving. Grief is a volatile sacrament, honored differently by all races and all beings, but never absent where sentience exists. To mourn comes naturally, but what lies beneath the tears and the wailing can help reveal one’s truer character. Does grief drive them to destruction, to cruel words and broken ties? Does it drive them to distraction, to the abandonment of imperatives like food and drink? Does it change them?

Strange felt his eyes lose focus. Grief changes everything.

_"I’m sorry."_

Strange drew his awareness back to the memory he was in, to Loki’s voice, piteous and small: _"Mother, I’m sorry,"_ he moaned, hands tangled in his hair, _"I didn’t mean it, please – please, forgive me. I’m so sorry. I love you, Frigga, please…"_

Strange moved time along, watching as Loki destroyed every one of his cell’s opulent furnishings at twice speed until, exhausted at last, he slumped against the far wall. He rested only long enough between wordless screams to replenish his air and muster stamina enough to continue. His hair and clothes were a mess, disheveled as Stephen had ever seen him, his face caught in an expression of abject misery.

Despite his best efforts, Stephen had seen more than his fair share of grief and grieving during his time as a surgeon. He’d gone on to see and experience more of it than he had ever thought possible as a sorcerer and a veteran of Thanos’s war. It wasn’t something easily feigned, and Loki’s affect betrayed such a depth of grief it would have been difficult for Stephen to imagine it was anything but sincere.

_"After all this time, now you come to visit me. Why? Have you come to gloat? To mock?"_

Loki was throwing his voice into the illusion around his cell, speaking to Thor – but his physical self was looking directly at Stephen, who felt as if something had... wrinkled, in the fabric of this memory.

Strange glanced around, reached for his magic and found it waiting, unhindered. Nothing seemed amiss, and yet…

“I did love her, you know,” Loki rasped, gaze steady. His throat had to work hard before he was able to speak again, and Stephen grew certain that it _was_ him to whom Loki was speaking. “She wasn’t the only thing I loved here, but she was the thing I loved best.” His mouth twitched in its attempt to form a smile. “We played games for hours, made up impossible riddles. She kept a garden, beautiful as anything. Blooms so lovely they could bring a Valkyrie to tears.”

Thor’s words were muffled, and Loki was no longer participating in the memory. Stephen wracked his brain for an explanation. This was supposed to be passive on Loki's part; in most cases the subject remained totally unaware. He had expected resistance from Loki despite his submission to the spell, but this?

“She taught me magic,” Loki went on, eyes distant, “because she knew I would never be like Thor or Odin. I never cared about _battle_ ,” he spat, “never wanted the _glory_ of Valhalla. Violence was only ever a means to an end. All I wanted was –”

The air changed, and Stephen felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Loki’s expression grew dark as he leveled a glare at Stephen, and the light seemed to dim around them.

“You come into my mind,” Loki seethed, “interrogate my intentions, pick me apart, recall my weakest moments –”

Neither of them moved, but Stephen had the distinct impression that the space between them was narrowing.

“But why here?” Loki scoffed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Here, of all places?” Tears were falling, unchecked, from his eyes. “What are you doing, sorcerer? Why do you come here? Why make me relive this? Do I not merit dignity enough to keep my own heart?”

Stephen stood slowly, wordlessly, watching Loki all the while. This was wrong.

“If I cannot have my mind,” Loki fumed, “then at least leave me to my _grief_.”

Strange was violently returned to his body, pressed back against the wall of the chamber as if by a physical force. It squeezed his chest and made his ribs ache before mercifully receding, flooding his lungs with cold air and sending him into a gasping fit. On the other side of the room Loki sat, immobile, eyes still closed as if meditating, no outward sign of the anger that had shunted Strange out of his memory.

Chest heaving, Stephen’s eyes darted around the chamber, trying to reacquaint himself with the physical plane. Coming out of a memory was a little like scuba diving: a controlled ascent was critical. As it was, Strange was likely to be stuck with a psychic case of the bends for anywhere from a few hours to a few days.

In moments the chamber door was opened, moved aside with the rough scrape of frost on metal before its place was taken by two shapes that might have been Tony and Peter. Still working on settling his mind back into his body, Strange let himself be taken up under his arms and helped through the door. His vision began to come back into focus as he was set down in a chair.

“Hey, Doc,” Tony said slowly. “Welcome back… You good?”

Strange tried to slow his breathing, but it felt like he had a dimension sitting on his chest. 

Peter disappeared and returned with the Cloak of Levitation, which wrapped itself tightly around Stephen’s shoulders. His hands were enveloped in something warm – gloves, he realized, looking down at his lap. Peter was carefully moving Strange’s hands into place, pressing what looked like a decorative button on the wrists before the gloves shrunk down to more closely hold his fingers. It almost hurt, but the very next moment his hands were suffused with warmth, pulling a helpless sigh of relief from him, on which he managed to tack a “thank you”.

Peter nodded earnestly. “I know your hands…” he trailed off, started again. “Mr. Stark put a warmer in my suit once, and… I mean, with the cold and everything, I thought…”

Strange let his head fall back on the chair, his breath starting to even out. Slow, heavy footfalls announced Banner’s arrival at this side of the lab.

There was a gravid pause.

“So, uh,” Banner faltered, “how’s his mind looking?”

Stephen waited for his breath to slow before huffing, “Not… enough to tell.”

The silence that met that statement said plainly enough that it wasn’t what they had wanted to hear, but as Strange gathered his strength he went on: “It takes time, can’t just jump in wherever I want.” He very nearly told them about Loki’s pushing him out of his memory, but something bade him hold his tongue. “I’ll need to go in again.”

Banner looked like he wanted to argue, but Tony jumped in. “No problem.”

Peter’s eyes were wide over a hopeful smile. “I can make grilled cheese,” he said, “if you’re hungry.”

Stephen’s chest swelled with helpless affection, and he felt himself smile. “Sounds great, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you want a refresher on the visual context for this memory:
> 
> Loki's cell scene:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-M22Kct61Co&t=32s
> 
> The scream :c :  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sANCuLKGyhw (4:45)


	5. Portia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stephen surprises himself, and Peter unwittingly comes to his rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on Peter's inspiration for his eight-legged friend:
> 
> https://www.minibeastwildlife.com.au/resources/portia/#:~:text=Portia%20fimbriata%2C%20known%20as%20the,the%20world's%20most%20intelligent%20spider.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portia_(spider)#Intelligence

Eight tiny legs, each tipped with a soft rubber cap, clicked and whirred under the white ceramic plate that held the grilled cheese sandwich Peter had promised. Stephen took up Tony’s place from the other morning, laid out on the sitting room sofa nearest the kitchenette as Peter tended to a hot pan.

“What’s it called, again?” Stephen asked, sluggish, as the tiny robotic spider raised its thorax and abdomen on telescoping legs, putting the plate at his eye level. Peter’s gloves lent Stephen’s hands stability enough for him to take up the plate, at which the spider swiftly returned to the floor.

“What, Portia?” Peter replied, looking over his shoulder as the spider bot skittered his way. Upon reaching the bar, the shiny blue-and-red arachnid jumped effortlessly onto the marble counter, and from there onto Peter’s shoulder. “I named her after _Portia fimbriata_ – the fringed jumping spider.”

A golden-brown crust yielded to Stephen’s teeth with a warm crunch before the sour-sharp tang of cheddar washed over his palate. “She does have a pretty impressive vertical,” he said around the bite.

Peter looked at the little spider on his shoulder fondly before letting his head fall to the side; Portia extended four of her legs to meet Peter’s affectionate nudge with her own. “Portia spiders are the smartest in the world,” he explained, “but they’re slow thinkers. They’ve only got around 600,000 neurons in their tiny little brains.”

Stephen’s eyes widened marginally as he savaged his sandwich. _That’s a hundred million times fewer neurons than are in the human brain,_ his mind helpfully supplied. Thank goodness his medical degree was good for something.

“Fortunately for _this_ Portia,” Peter went on, “humans have been building smaller and smaller computers for years, so she’s got about thirty billion.”

Strange resisted the urge to lick his fingers, instead wiping them on the linen napkin that had arrived with the plate. “How long did she take you to build?”

Peter flipped the contents of his pan to an awaiting plate. “She was my capstone project for advanced robotics.” He handed the plate off to Portia, who began making her way back towards the sitting room. “Eight months, I think?”

Stephen swallowed a last mouthful of melted cheese and crisp, buttered bread before he let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa. He gladly listened to Peter’s recounting of late nights spent in the MIT robotics lab, furtive texts to Ned with mid-lecture revelations, and no fewer than three coding errors that resulted in significant personal and minor professional embarrassment. Over the course of two more sandwiches Stephen felt the bone-deep, broken-glass pain in his body start to ebb. It was as he was making a mental note to speak with Wong about an experiment examining the psychic restorative potential of milk fats that Tony and Bruce returned to the living area with Thor.

“It’s not perfect,” Tony said, watching as Thor took halting steps forward, “but it should let you get around easier, at least until Shuri can check you out.”

Strange squinted as the three approached, making out a blue and silver node stuck to Thor’s temple. His eyes – still eerily pallid – were flitting hectically around the space, landing here or there and stuttering as they tried to focus.

Thor sounded skeptical. “And you say this is the way bats see in the dark? How do they ever catch anything?”

“Practice,” Bruce said.

Further talk was halted by Peter’s declaration that lunch was ready, no need to thank him. Minutes passed in contented silence before Thor asked Strange how his time with Loki had gone. “I heard you had something of a rude awakening,” he elaborated, gesturing to Bruce and Tony.

Pain flared to new life in Stephen’s head and joints as he sat up. “You could say that,” he groaned.

Thor’s skittish eyes roved across whatever impression he was given of Strange’s figure by the device at his temple. “Has he injured you?” He sounded incredulous.

That gave Stephen pause.

He’d lived with chronic pain long enough to know when his mind was too overwhelmed by it to handle the crafting of a convincing lie. He wondered fleetingly why it was that he seemed intent on hiding the fact that Loki was very much in control of at least some measure of his natural power, but the thought soon became too complex to scrutinize – crowded out by the headache that throbbed behind his eyes and filled his ears with the sound of rushing blood.

How, then, to explain the psychic and physical bruising?

“He said that sometimes it just takes a lot out of him.”

Strange turned his head too quickly to convey whatever he’d first thought about Peter’s statement. His head swam, and he swallowed back a wave of nausea. Peter’s light steps entered the living area and Strange heard rather than saw him drop into a large, plush armchair.

“Yeah, we were talking about it earlier,” Peter went on. “I mean, the magic stuff’s beyond me, but it sounded pretty intense.”

And just like that, Peter had saved the day.

Banner fidgeted as he talked. “Is it weird that I feel kind of bad about the last time Loki and I saw each other? I know it was just the other guy he was dealing with, and he was trying to invade Earth and everything, but still…”

As Bruce seemed ready to go on, Thor shook his head, frowning. “Your memory serves you ill, Banner. The last time you and I saw Loki was on the ship fleeing from Asgard.”

Bruce squinted and sat back. “I feel like that’s something I would remember,” he said, palming the back of his neck.

Thor's frown deepened, and when he spoke it was with a bit of an edge. “Yes, I had rather thought you would.” There was a tense moment’s pause. “But,” he conceded, “I suppose even your bigger, greener self might have been disoriented, what with the beating Thanos gave you.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “The big guy fought Thanos?”

Thor had been leaning forward, elbows on knees as he ate, but when Bruce spoke he slowly straightened his spine. “Do you truly have no recollection of what happened that day?”

Two Tylenol, three ibuprofen and a seltzer were on the table in front of Stephen. He hadn’t noticed Peter getting up, but hoped his appreciation was conveyed by the vague gesture he managed to give.

“I guess I don’t,” Banner replied quietly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “A lot of the Hulk’s memories are fuzzy for me, but when we fused most of them became clearer.”

The pills went down smooth, and the prospect of pain relief fortified Strange enough for him to chime in. “The mind has the power to bury those things that are too horrible for it to bear,” he mumbled as loud as he could stand to. “Even hardened warriors can lose time, lose entire swaths of their memories, when a trauma is too great. I’d say fighting Thanos constitutes a pretty significant traumatic event.”

Banner gestured to Thor. “But Thor clearly recalls something I don’t, and he was there, too.”

Strange made an effort to shrug. “Trauma doesn’t affect any two people alike – not really. I’m sure there are things we would all like to forget but can’t.”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say only after it was hanging heavy in the air. No one responded; they didn’t need to. They were all walking down the same dark, haunted memory lane.

Before the mood became too somber, Tony broke it up. “You know, I am just so proud of you boys,” he said with a wry smile. “Seems only yesterday Thor and Bruce were bickering over who the strongest Avenger is, and now look at us.” He waved grandly. “All together, eating sandwiches, reminiscing. It’s cute.” He clapped his hands together. “But,” he went on, lifting himself out of his seat, “I’m afraid I have a meeting with a certain Wakandan scientist.”

Peter perked up. “Shuri?”

Tony grinned knowingly. “Yeah, Spider Boy – why, you wanna tag along?”

In his defense, Peter had apparently been drinking something when the question was asked; he spluttered and choked and only managed to get out the words, “Nope, good, fine, just asking.”

~*~

A phone call to Wong was all it took to ensure that the New York sanctum would be safe in Stephen’s absence. He’d elected to stay the night in Salzburg, both to recuperate and reconnect with his magic as well as to be on standby for any more flash freezes in Tony’s lab. Despite his host’s insistence that there were several fully furnished guest rooms that would be more to his liking, Strange had refused to give up the couch. He’d just gotten comfortable and didn’t want to tempt pain with movement.

It did mean, however, that when the low light from the range hood in the kitchenette clicked on, he had to roll to face the back of the couch or risk renewed headache. Two sets of steps shuffled into the kitchen, one heavy, one light.

Thor’s voice was hollow. “Has he eaten?”

The whirr of Portia’s servos was muffled in the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “Not yet. I tried everything – well, everything we have, anyway. He didn’t take any of it, but he didn’t try to hurt me or Portia, either.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of glasses clinking and decanted fluid, at which Thor offered his thanks. Stephen kept his breathing even, trying to relax, but found himself unable to ignore the conversation behind him.

“You know,” Peter said hesitantly, “it might be good if you talked to him.”

Thor’s glass sounded empty when it returned to the countertop, and he didn’t speak for a moment that stretched and stretched. “I want to see him,” Thor started slowly, “really see him, I mean – but I’m afraid he won’t want to see me.

“Why on earth wouldn’t he want to see you? You flew around in space alone for nearly a year, following a lead that you weren’t even sure would bring him back.”

Stephen heard the ripple of a fresh drink falling into a glass. “I don’t know that he sees it that way.”

Peter sounded puzzled. “What other way could he see it?”

A heavy sigh that could only have come from Thor. “He thinks himself a monster.”

Loki’s memory came back to Stephen. _I am the monster that parents tell their children about at night._

The refrigerator door chuffed as it opened. “I only know what’s public record and what the rest of them have told me,” Peter admitted, “but it seems like Loki’s moved past the ‘trying to invade earth’ and ‘being a supervillain’ thing.”

Stephen could practically see that cheeky smile: _We must all play our parts, mustn’t we?_

“You misunderstand.” Thor took a deep breath. “We were taught as children that the Frost Giants of Jotunheim grew too powerful and too numerous for any of the nine realms other than Asgard to defeat alone. We were told that they were little more than beasts trapped in a world of perpetual winter and that, given the chance, they would surely bring all the realms to ruin.

“Odin, with his father, led the charge into Jotunheim… and slaughtered thousands of them.”

Peter’s voice was small. “Jesus…”

“I only learned many years later that that was the day Loki was found.”

Someone was fidgeting, if the low scrape of tempered glass on marble was any indication. “Wasn’t he the son of the frost giant king?”

“Laufey, yes. How did you know?”

“I read,” Peter said simply. “Wasn’t he upset that his son was, you know… kidnapped?”

_I found a baby. Abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey’s son._

“Such knowledge is not mine to share,” Thor said to Peter. “I’ve been given to understand that Loki was abandoned in a Jotun temple, but beyond that I’m not sure. I may never truly know.”

Stephen’s attention flagged as an uneasy sleep tried to lead his waking mind to rest. The low murmur of the voices behind him rose, fell, then stopped altogether. The tenuous thread that promised to lead Strange into, at the very least, a fitful sleep, was broken when Peter spoke up again.

“It sounds like he’s ashamed.”

Thor’s glass met the counter as he muffled a belch. “Beg pardon?”

“He’s ashamed of how he looks without the glamour.”

Thor’s laugh was dark. “Can you blame him? Sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“It’s not just that,” Peter insisted. “He cares about what you think, Thor. ‘I don’t want you to see me like this’ is usually a pretty good indicator of shame, even if _you’re_ the one saying it for him.”

“Helpless” wasn’t a word Strange associated with any of the people he worked with, but Thor’s plaintive tone came close. “What can be done? What if he can no longer use his magic? Asgard is destroyed; just as Hela drew her power from Asgard, so too did Loki and I.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, going for reassurance, “you still seem pretty strong.”

Stephen could hear the sardonic smile in Thor’s reply. “Is that what I seem?” His laugh was empty. “Blind, broken, sick – am I the picture of godlike strength?”

Peter didn’t hesitate: “Just because you’re not godlike doesn’t mean you’re not strong.”

Stephen would forever deny that Peter Parker made him smile just by talking.

“Mr. Stark is only human, but look at everything he’s done. He’s helped so many people, saved so many lives. And yeah, he’s messed up, too – we all make mistakes. But he’s not less of a hero because of them.”

It took Thor only a few moments to acquiesce. “Perhaps you are right, Man of Spiders,” he said glumly. Stephen’s eyes had begun to relax into sleep when Thor’s voice, a little thick, reached him again. “Tell me, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nah, just me,” Peter replied. “I’m close with my friend Ned – I guess he’s the closest thing to a brother I’ve got.”

Thor’s tone lightened in an instant. “Brothers are one of the best things that can ever happen to you,” he said, almost like himself. “They are a gift. Cherish yours, and he’ll do the same.”

It was with those words that Stephen finally felt the specter of sleep envelope him, pulling shut the curtain of his waking mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last time I remember seeing Bruce Banner as the Hulk, exclusively, was the big fight on the _Statesman_ \- the ship full of Asgardian refugees that Thanos attacked. That was one of the most chilling beat-downs in the series, imo. The phrase "we have a Hulk" doesn't get thrown around lightly, and the fact that it's Loki that says it seems significant. He's their silver bullet - when a thing defies being beat down, you send in the Hulk. And Thanos just steps on him.


	6. What Makes a Man?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen makes what he hopes is his last trip into Loki's mind, and learns something important.

To his great relief, Loki declined to interact with him as Strange strolled through memories that took him to Sakaar, Asgard, Chitauri Prime, Nidavellir, and back to Earth. He saw Thanos’s resurrection and recruitment of a broken and dejected Asgardian prince, watched as the mind stone took hold of Loki and honed his pain to a wicked edge. Strange had to re-watch the memory on Stark Tower, during Loki's failed invasion, to be sure that he really had seen a single tear escape from Loki's eye as he'd stabbed Thor.

_"Sentiment,"_ Loki had said with disbelief, a grisly, unnatural smile twisting his mouth.

Two moments on Sakaar stood out especially strongly. The first was in an elevator, with Thor, on the way to steal a ship from the Grandmaster.

_"Here’s the thing,"_ Loki began. _"I’m probably better off staying here, on Sakaar."_

Thor’s reply was ready and cheerful. _"That's exactly what I was thinking."_

Loki was visibly taken aback, shock and incredulity warring for dominance over his features. _"Did you just agree with me?"_

A wave of his hand let Strange access the emotional subtext. Loki had expected Thor to disagree with him – more than that, he’d _wanted_ him to. All those years of insistence that he wanted nothing to do with him, that Thor was an oaf and a buffoon unworthy of the throne, and at the end of the day it was all just possessive, childish bravado.

_"This place is perfect for you,"_ Thor observed cheerily. _"It's savage, chaotic, lawless. Brother, you're going to do GREAT here."_

Loki’s tone betrayed his dismay. _"Do you truly think so little of me?"_

Thor’s voice was guileless, if a little sad. _"Loki, I thought the world of you. I thought we were going to fight side-by-side forever, but at the end of the day, you're you and I'm me and..."_ He sighed. _"Oh, maybe there's still good in you but... let's be honest: our paths diverged a long time ago."_

Stephen was far past being surprised that Loki wanted Thor to respect him, or at the very least like him. For all that Loki’s description as the god of mischief was often conflated with lying and deception, in Strange’s estimation he was a piss-poor liar. Hell, his voice was thick and watery when he said, _"Yeah... it's probably for the best that we'll never see each other again."_

Thor said with a grin and a companionable clap on Loki’s shoulder, _"That's what you always wanted."_

Stephen was glad that he got to stick around for “get help”.

In the hangar below, once the guards were dealt with, Strange watched Loki step out of a clone that kept pace with Thor as Loki prime approached a nearby console.

_"You know, I feel it won't make much of a difference..."_

Thor sighed, rolling his neck. _"Loki..."_

_"...but this time, it's truly nothing personal. The reward for your capture,"_ Loki sounded the alarm with a sharp grin, _"will set me up nicely."_

Thor gave him a sad sort of smirk. _"Never one for sentiment, were you?"_

Loki’s smile grew taut. _"Easier to let it burn."_

Thor grinned. _" I agree."_

Loki's eyes widened as Thor held up the remote taser. He hit the button, electrocuting Loki, who fell convulsing to the ground. Thor walked over to him, crouching down and offering Loki a sympathetic wince.

_"That looks painful. Dear brother... you're becoming predictable. I trust you, you betray me, round and round in circles we go. See Loki, life is about... It's about growth, it's about change. But you seem to just want to stay the same. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you'll always be the god of mischief, but you could be more."_ He smiled. _"I'll just put this over here for you,"_ he said, tossing the remote aside as Loki spasmed on the floor.

Strange could only stand to watch Loki twitch for a short time before he put a stop to the memory, rewinding until Loki was back on his feet at the console, eyes wide as Thor held the remote taser’s control aloft.

Thor, it seemed, had finally beaten Loki in a game of wits. Perhaps that was what made this memory stand out in Loki's mind – why those words had meant something more to him than a lifetime of Thor’s insistence that he should behave ever could have.

Stephen resisted the urge to rub at his eyes. There was just one more memory he needed to see: the battle aboard the _Statesman_.

Stephen would have liked to linger more on the memory Loki had of coming into Thor’s quarters, complimenting him on his eyepatch. _"It suits you,"_ he’d said, at which Thor had smiled. _"Well, maybe you’re not so bad after all, brother."_

Loki’s smile looked genuine. _"Maybe not."_

_"If you were here,"_ Thor said affably, _"I might even give you a hug."_ He tossed a small decanter at Loki, clearly expecting an illusion.

But Loki caught it. _"I am here."_

Days later – days of literally and figuratively showing up for Thor, of cooperating and contributing in the ways he could – Thanos would end Loki’s life. Loki had done his best, but Thanos was, in more ways than Strange liked to admit, inevitable. Loki had tried talking his way out, bluffing against Thor’s life before surrendering to that nasty “sentiment” he seemed unable to purge. 

Strange couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow when Loki earnestly swore, _"I assure you, brother, the sun will shine on us again."_

There was a clarity to his thoughts that made him virtually unrecognizable as the sharp-tongued, self-serving narcissist that had come to Earth with the intention of conquest, who lusted after a crown.

When he finally emerged from the chamber, Strange spent the next several hours cataloguing, organizing, and processing what he had learned in one of the guest rooms Stark had offered him the night before. He reminded himself of his intention: to discern whether Loki was in a frame of mind that would make him dangerous, a security risk. In a very real sense, what he told the others about how he interpreted Loki's present character had the chance to throw what had become a relatively peaceful planet into chaos. Giving Loki the green light would certainly please Thor, but would likely make Tony and Bruce uneasy; declaring that Loki was too high-risk to remain on Earth would most assuredly render Strange's relationship with Thor less-than-amicable.

Stephen let himself fall into a focused half-consciousness as he wove together the threads of Loki’s history, slowed his breath until his heart scarcely beat. He surrendered to the current, and asked: What is Loki? What does he want?

The low gossip of what had once been the secrets that Loki’s mind protected grew in volume, in scope. Strange let them unfurl around him like miles-long tapestries as he listened to the story they told.

_Power. Control. Alone._

_Claim to love me._

_Those plans no longer matter._

_Monster. Odinson. Laufey’s son._

_... I no longer matter._

_Loki, I thought the world of you._

_I love you, my sons._

_I didn’t do it for him._

_You could be more._

_All I ever wanted…_

_Sentiment.  
_

_Easier to let it burn._

_Do you truly think so little of me?_

_Maybe you’re not so bad after all, brother._

_I’m right here._

Loki may once have been self-serving, arrogant to the point of megalomania, full of a desperate need to prove himself more powerful and cleverer than any other – but this was the kind of arrogance that blooms from insecurities whose roots are gnarled and deep. He’d been counted out, passed over, had lived largely in his brother’s shadow. His command of magic hadn’t been enough to earn him the respect and attention he coveted. Turning to mischief, at least, helped him stand out.

He was told as a child that he might one day be king, only to have it revealed in Odin’s vault that not only was the childhood promise a fiction, but the only other claim to power he might have had on Jotunheim was moot in the face of Laufey’s abandonment. As Odin had helpfully observed, _“Your birthright was to die.”_

There are few things that can drive a mind to distraction as easily as feeling rejected.

His biological father hadn’t wanted him. Odin made it clear the only reason he didn’t execute Loki was that Frigga cared for her son. And then, because of his actions on Earth, Loki was unable to help prevent the murder of the one person on Asgard who understood and accepted him.

Stephen recognized the deeply gouged pain of utter isolation in Loki’s mind; it was the selfsame feeling he’d been subject to during his first visit to Kamar-Taj, when the Ancient One had forcefully opened his eyes to things he’d once believed impossible. _Who are you in this vast multiverse, Mr. Strange?_

This, he imagined, had something to do with Loki's time adrift in space.

Feeling so small, so insignificant – hardly a speck on the canvas over which the universe was wrought in color and cold silence – does things to one’s mind. It brings into question all you ever thought you knew, everything you ever thought you were. To know that the things for which you have lived, died, and lived again may as well not exist at all, as far as the universe was concerned, reduced the self-concept to pieces so small they could scarcely be counted.

When Stephen had returned to himself back then, at the temple, he had begged the Ancient One to teach him. He’d been emptied of all his beliefs about reality and time and was then left with a gnawing hunger for knowledge that he feared might never be satisfied. Now he could look back and laugh at her initial refusal, his desperate and pathetic pleas at the temple door to not be shut out.

_Please, don’t cast me out._

Strange felt a ripple across his awareness, like something brushing up behind the curtain of Loki’s mental tapestry. He redoubled his efforts, gathered his focus, followed the thread –

_I have nowhere else to go._

He resisted the urge to chastise himself. Doing so would only further muddy his interpretation. Maintaining distance between his headspace and the space of the subject was a critical part of this exercise, one he’d performed on multiple occasions without so much as an errant mental whisper.

Why, then, he deliberately _didn’t_ wonder, was all of this to much more complicated when it came to Loki?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because is _anything_ simple when it comes to Loki?
> 
> No. "No" is the answer to that question.


	7. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's been dead before, but none of his resurrections had ever gone quite like this one. He's starting to worry that he didn't come back complete - that he left something behind in his personal purgatory.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, at long last: without further ado, I present you with Loki's POV. Enjoy~  
>   
> 

For years, Loki had clung to the last scrap of his existence. To say that he had been conscious would be inaccurate, but neither was he asleep. Rather, at the intersection of science and magic was the impression on Loki’s mind that he had been wandering. Aimless, oblivious, unknowing, and empty of all but a single thought: _Why am I here?_

The question was never “where am I going?”. It was never “what happened?”. For some reason, the only question his mind was able to ponder was “why?”. He should be dead… but he wasn’t. He’d been dead before, and that wasn’t what he was now. Could this be his _final_ death? Was this his afterlife: an eternity of wandering through a vast, grey wasteland that stretched in every direction?

He’d thought once or twice that he’d found a way out – something looked different, a rock here or a mote of dust there. He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to get out; he had only a vague sense of something he wanted to return to. A place? A person?

Whatever it was, losing it had made his heart so heavy that sometimes he wondered if it would crush what was left of him, whatever he was. There were times he would lie down, unable to carry the weight any longer. And yet, always, he got back up. He kept moving.

When something changed, he noticed: a strange sort of light creeping up past the hopelessly distant horizon. It was then that his thoughts had begun to race. It was too much to think, too much to remember, and all so loud – louder than anything he’d ever heard (or, at least, he thought so).

When the light crested the horizon with a blinding flash, Loki began to feel the cold, and it was a comfort. What was _not_ a comfort was Thor’s inanimate body being the first thing Loki saw when he was brutally reacquainted with the material plane. 

Bright lights, loud noises, the sound of voices raised in alarm – was he back on the _Statesman_ ? He had to be – that was the last thing he remembered. Thanos must have killed Thor, killed him and laid his body next to Loki’s in a perverted mock-up of a last rite.

This must have been the weight – the thing Loki had thought would crush him as he roved across his desolate purgatory. He opened his mouth to let it out, to scream for the brother he had finally, truly lost – but he made no sound. Loki grasped at his throat, desperation and fear buzzing in his ears. What was _happening_?

His eyes, traitorous and weak, alighted on a figure – something bipedal. A survivor? The lights were too bright for Loki to tell. He reached for it, lunged forward until what he thought was his hand connected with the figure’s head.

_What happened?_

Oh, how Loki wished he’d never asked.

One snap to fulfill Thanos’s genocidal objective. Another to destroy the infinity stones. A third to undo what Thanos had done. A fourth to turn the mad titan and his army to dust. Grief, pain, interminable suffering, a battle that echoed visions of Ragnarok. An enormous matrix of portals from which had spilled Earth’s champions, a trembling hand that had held up one shaking finger.

_How many did we win?_

_One._

That was all Loki was able to gather before the creature whose mind he was inside fell to the floor in a heap. Loki stumbled, caught himself, leaned back against something solid and put a hand on his rattling chest. It was as he looked down to assess himself that he realized with a jolt that his skin was dark, an icy blue. He turned his hands over, dread pooling cold and thick in his stomach as he saw that his fingernails were frostbite-black.

_No, no, no…_

“Loki?" a dead man croaked.

Loki’s horrified self-inspection screeched to a halt. Thor sat up, eyes a milky white as he reached blindly for his brother. From there, Loki’s recollection was hazy. By the time he realized that he was – once again – confined to a cell, whatever febrile energy he’d woken up with had burnt out. The next moment of lucidity he had was when the frost he seemed to be bringing with him started to fall back from the observation window, leaving Loki in his cold, dark, safe corner.

That was when the sorcerer began to speak. His was the first face other than Thor’s that Loki recognized, and he clung to that. He’d met the man once before, hadn’t he? The impression was vaguely negative, but Loki’s more recent impression of him came from his participation in the final confrontation with Thanos. 

The sorcerer’s questions were simple, so much so that Loki found himself exasperated – _exasperated!_ How long had it been since he’d felt anything at all? When set against the alternative, this new arrangement offered Loki a veritable plethora of sensory delights.

Less delightful, but no less sensory, were the sorcerer’s intrusions into Loki’s memories. Still without his voice, he could only nod as Strange explained what he was doing, and why. 

In a way, he was grateful to Strange for jogging his memory. After the initial shock of his return and the flood of personal history, Loki found himself sifting through memories it was hard to believe were his.

Gratitude was the furthest thing from Loki’s mind, however, when Strange intruded on his grieving for Frigga. Bitter was the gall of that memory, and of its corollary: that he had been denied a presence at her funeral. It was at this point Loki determined that some things were, in fact, best left forgotten. 

He hadn’t intended to harm the wizard, though something slimy in his chest curled in on itself with self-satisfied glee when he found that he had. After the others had assisted Strange out from the chamber that had become Loki’s new home, the happiness flagged and left in its place the dark stain of guilt. He didn’t like it. He resolved not to startle the wizard again.

As he had meditated in Strange’s absence, Loki was able to reclaim some of the pieces of his past. Regardless of whose side he was on, whatever plans he’d laid or favors he’d bargained for, he’d always had his magic… a magic that seemed to have left him. He lacked even the basic aptitude to restore his glamour.

The desperate self-loathing and disgust Loki felt for his Jotun form loomed like the shadow of a darkened moon in the background of his mind. By the third day of his confinement, it was getting hard to think clearly past the shame, and the panic that came with the realization that he may truly have been stripped of his power. At first, he had thought that the chamber was dampening it, somehow – but Strange performed his tricks well enough within its confines. Perhaps Loki just needed rest. It was easier by far to hope that was the case than to entertain the notion that he would look like… _this_ … for the rest of his life.

That he would return to his purgatory when he slept seemed to Loki a foregone conclusion, but it meant that when he awoke, each time felt like his first; he could still hardly comprehend that he had a physical form. Things were brighter here, and louder, and sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t have just kept on walking. But he remembered the pull he’d felt, the mysterious conviction that this is where he would rather be. So, he waited.

Waking up somewhere new didn’t trouble him as much when he realized it was far more comfortable than the containment cell. He laid in a bed between a maroon damask comforter and burgundy sheets, in a room that was somewhat larger than his cell on Asgard had been. In a distant corner of his mind crouched the notion that it was bleak indeed that the only thing he had to compare his new accommodations to was yet another prison.

A woven rug, wine-red with decorative gold and blue stitching, covered most of the warm wooden floor. Nearby were a desk and a small vanity upon whose surface sat a shallow basin and a pitcher of water, which clarified the purpose of the hand towel draped over the back of the chair in front of it. A window on the near wall to his left, against which the bed was placed, let in wan, gloomy rays of sun, kept in check by half-drawn curtains.

Loki waited for his mind to catch up, to make an unstable sort of sense out of where and what he was ( _Earth. Alive._ ). When his thoughts had calmed somewhat, he folded back the covers, bringing his feet to the floor. Someone had dressed him, he realized distantly as he noticed the dark socks on his feet and the soft cotton trousers over his legs. The vanity’s mirror caught his reflection, and he froze.

He looked like himself – pale skin, blue-green eyes. He traced the line of his jaw, his chin, the peaks of his cheekbones, his lips – pale, but pink. Absent too were the ugly raised patterns that marked him as a Jotun, those scar-like blemishes nowhere to be seen. He didn’t have the word for the sound he made until moments after he’d made it.

_Laughter._

“At least I still have my looks,” he mused, eyes widening at the realization that he had his voice back. His mouth stretched up – _smile_ –and he looked to his palms. Closing his eyes, he reached for the power he knew was his, forsaking awareness for feeling. If he’d reapplied his glamour, surely that meant his connection with the Seidr had been restored. Surely.

His surety wavered when his search came back empty. He tried to soothe himself, to reinforce his precarious calm with the thought that, if his glamour was back, there was yet some magic inside of him. It was only a matter of time, he was sure, before he would be restored to his full strength. Then, he could…

Loki blinked, staring dumbly at his reflection. “He could,” what? For what felt like the first time in his life, Loki didn’t have a goal in mind. He wasn’t chasing anything, wasn’t maintaining any lies as far as he was aware…

This line of thought troubled him, and so he abandoned it in favor of getting out of bed. His knees wobbled, but he was soon steady again. Looking back at his reflection he was struck with the realization that, while he was once again beautiful, he was also ghastly thin – sunken cheeks, bony shoulders, and taut skin over jutting ribs. He raised one hand to the hollow of his stomach, recognizing with a wave of nausea that he could fit his entire hand in the space there.

Retreating from the mirror he made for the door, getting as far as grasping the knob before the sound of nearby voices stayed his hand.

“I’m the Sorcerer Supreme, Wong – I can bring who and whatever I like into the sanctum.”

He recognized Strange’s voice.

“The other masters won’t see it that way,” cautioned a voice that Loki didn’t know.

Strange’s tone was more curious than anything. “And are you one of those masters?”

Wong side-stepped the question. “You don’t seriously think he’s going to stay here and not cause trouble, do you? He tried to invade Earth.”

“Under the influence of the mind stone,” Strange replied.

Yes, that was one that Loki recalled quite vividly – coming under the control of the mind stone, at least. The invasion itself, his time on Earth, remained hazy, but he was fairly sure he had the shape of it.

“He killed people in Stuttgart,” the man named Wong continued.

“Also under the influence of the mind stone.”

Loki felt himself frown. _Why is he defending me?_

Their voices drew closer; it sounded as though they were passing through the hallway outside of the room Loki was in. “You know as well as I do that the mind stone only amplifies what’s already in the mind it influences.”

“That hypothesis has never been scientifically tested."

“ _Stephen,_ ” Wong hissed.

The steps came to a halt. “Look, Wong: I’m telling you, he’s changed. I’ve seen it. I’ve been inside of his mind. He’s not the same. And besides, it’s not as if he’s magically dangerous.”

Loki felt the pit where his stomach should have been yawn more widely. _Not magically dangerous…_

“A knife between your ribs will kill you just as surely as a blast of dark magic.”

“You sure you’re not somebody’s grandmother? You’re just full of pithy truisms today.”

“This is not a joking matter, Strange,” the other voice warned.

Strange’s reply came sternly. “And I’m not joking.”

There was a silence Loki interpreted as tense. “Fine,” Wong said at last, “but on your head be the consequences, Strange.”

One set of steps continued down the hall, fading into the distance. Loki heard Strange sigh and mutter, “Aren’t they always?”

It was all Loki could do to get out of the way as the door swung open, stumbling back a few steps as the sorcerer entered. He didn’t quite offer Loki a smile, but his look of minor surprise didn’t seem guarded or fearful. “Ah, Mr. Odinson – you’re awake.”

Loki swallowed hard, groping for the words to reply but coming up empty.

Strange’s look was half-humorous, half-sympathetic. “Cat still got your tongue?”

It was easier than trying to explain, so Loki nodded.

“Well, no matter,” Strange said, and this time he did smile – a little thing, but it felt real. He stood aside and gestured to the open door. “Come. Let’s get some food in you.”

Loki was salivating before the words had fully translated. _Food_ – gods, but he was hungry…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody get this boy a cheeseburger, stat.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and subscribe to the Endgame Epilogue series to make sure you don't miss an update on this or the related works!


	8. The Valkyrie King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smile of a forsworn Valkyrie is a dangerous thing, but Strange thought Brunhilde wore it well. “I’ll be back,” she agreed.
> 
> News of Loki's return affects everyone differently. The newly-appointed Valkyrie King of New Asgard is out for blood, for example. Stephen begins to understand why he's been covering for Loki...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World building! Plot! Yes, really - A PLOT!
> 
> Plus: Appearances by Two Super Powerful Women!

“I hear you are harboring a fugitive, Doctor.” Shuri’s report was tempered by the laughter in her voice.

Stephen joined her at her workstation, looking over her shoulder at the sample she was testing. Soft, warm sunlight shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced a sprawling, green Wakandan vista. “The word ‘fugitive’ implies that someone is looking for him,” he said. “Since he was presumed dead…”

Shuri said something in one of the few languages Strange didn’t know. “I’m sure there are at least two governing bodies in every galaxy from here to Knowhere that would pay handsomely for the head of Loki Odinson,” she needled. Her fingers were laced into a holographic wire overlay of the vial Stephen had brought to her lab days ago.

“Well, they’re so far out of the way,” Stephen drawled, “and he really isn’t in any shape to travel, so…”

Shuri tutted. “You really must stop letting your sentiment get the better of you, Doctor,” she cautioned, eyes intent on her work. “Otherwise the lions in your midst may realize that among them hides a tender lamb.”

Stephen snorted. “I’m not sure ‘tender’ is a word anyone has ever used to describe me, before.”

Shuri grimaced in mock-disgust. “And you let people walk around calling you a lamb?”

“Until today? No.”

A baritone alert sounded as the wire overlay in Shuri’s hands flashed red. “Damn,” she said with a sigh, “I was really hoping that would work.” Dismissing the overlay with a single tap at the kimoyo beads on her wrist, she took up the vial and handed it to Strange. “Without additional samples, I can’t say for certain what manner of creature this is. I’ll need more to compare it with.”

The Cloak tightened anxiously around Stephen’s shoulders. “Thanks for trying,” he said, taking the vial and disappearing it into a pocket dimension.

Shuri’s eyes were calculating. “A pity about the Hong Kong sanctum,” she observed, reordering the tools on her bench. “I trust nothing was stolen?”

Strange had been around long enough to know when he was being plied for information. He casually retreated to the window, watching with interest as a flock of pink and green birds passed by. “I’m wounded that you think I’d let anyone get inside.”

Two weeks ago, Strange had been urgently called to help defend the sanctum on the other side of the world. The assailants had appeared to be sorcerer separatists, working under the auspices of what _had_ been a one-man crusade led by Mordo, with the aim of reducing the number of sorcerers on Earth. That these “sorcerers” hadn’t been able to anticipate the sanctum’s defenses betrayed them; Mordo himself would never make such a poorly calculated move. That the assault was unsuccessful had done little to ease Stephen’s mind. Instead, discerning the identities of the assailants and the organization – if any – they followed had become an ongoing priority.

There was a pause before Shuri asked, “And was anyone hurt?”

Stephen shook his head. “Not seriously. Their delivery system for the acid was badly designed. Wong’s favorite robe was the only real casualty.”

She joined him at the window. “Brazen indeed to assault a sanctum in broad daylight, don’t you think?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Strange said with a critical side-eye, “I’d think you were trying to wheedle information out of me.”

She shrugged shamelessly. “What can I say? Data is the lifeblood of our craft.” Moments passed in silence before Shuri spoke again. “Are you not concerned that Loki’s magic might return to him while he is in the sanctum?”

Strange figured he could answer at least one of the questions she was posing, struck yet again with the realization that he seemed to be trying to hide something about Loki’s access to his powers. “There are contingencies in place,” he said, deliberately cryptic.

Shuri made a sound at the intersection of a groan and a sigh. “You white boys are all so keen to keep your secrets that you fail to see solutions right in front of you,” she chided, turning away from Strange and the window. “Come here, then, Stephen – whether you know it or not, you need my help.”

She retrieved two lengths of fabric from a drawer inside of a tall silver cabinet. When he got closer, Stephen saw that they were a pair of sashes woven from green and gold fibers, flecked with specks of glittering silver that caught the light as Shuri presented them. “They are called several things, but I haven’t come up with a name for them in English yet.”

The fibers were soft to the touch and gave off a low hum of magical energy. “What are their non-English names?” Stephen asked.

Shuri arched one eyebrow, tracing over the glyphs that, until now, Strange hadn’t noticed were woven into the pattern of the sashes. “Yeka ubu,” she began, moving her fingers over a group of symbols that grew softly luminous at her touch. “Bopha,” came next, a series of sharp angles and waving lines aglow under Shuri’s fingertips. “Intamba yento,” she finished with a shrug. “I suppose you could call them ‘fatigue sashes.’ They respond to the intent of the wearer.”

It took Stephen a moment to realize that Shuri was going to give him a demonstration as she began wrapping one of the sashes around her right arm. “You’re lucky,” she said with a grin. “I usually use others as my guinea pigs.”

Shuri raised her hand, as if to receive a high-five. “Come on, then,” she said when he hesitated. Cautiously, Stephen raised his hand – the tremors weren’t bad today – and delivered a low-intensity clap. “Good,” Shuri said. “Now come closer: I’m going to try and hit you, and you’re going to let me.”

Confusion and amusement lightened Strange’s tone. “And why would I do that?”

Shuri looked unimpressed. “Just do it, sorcerer.”

Once he had complied, Shuri wound up a moderate punch and took aim at his upper arm. Before her fist could connect, however, her arm fell limp, dangling uselessly in front of her as she clenched her teeth around a grunt of pain.

“The wearer can maintain normal function of their limbs,” she bit out, massaging her forearm, “until they move with intent to harm. The sash interrupts communication between the peripheral nervous system and the brain and causes the muscles to spasm.”

Strange felt his eyebrows go up. “It’s a psychically-sensitive remote taser,” he said, not so much a question as an observation.

A series of tugs saw the sash fall from Shuri’s arm as she sighed, “Essentially, yes.” She folded the sashes, placed them in a lightweight box she had produced from another drawer elsewhere in the lab, and handed them to Stephen. “After their next use, they will be attuned to your magical signature through the vibranium threads. Once you apply them, the only way to loosen, tighten, or remove them is to reactivate the vibranium.”

Strange accepted the box. “I’ll admit to being surprised that you’ve worked on incorporating magic into your tech,” he said. “Most science types shy away from it.”

Shuri met him with a catlike smile. “You and I are people of science, Strange, but traditional science can only get us so far. There is more than enough room in this world for magic to help us improve our lives.”

Strange smirked. “Why do you think I do this for a living?”

A dark, delicate hand settled on Stephen’s chest. “Continue to take care in your work, little lamb,” she said. "I would miss our little chats." After sparing him a meaningful glance, she gave him a push. “Now get out of my lab, sorcerer – I have work to do.”

Having clearly been dismissed, Strange took his leave with a casual promise to see her again soon.

Shuri chuckled as the portal closed behind him. “Silly, stupid man,” she said fondly.

~*~

Brunhilde entered the sanctum via its front door, which Strange found amusing, at first. In the past week people had come and gone from the New York sanctum via portals, mirrors, singularities and Einstein-Rosen bridges – but the front door of 177A Bleecker st. had itself been left untouched.

Thor’s appointment of Brunhilde as King of New Asgard had caused quite a stir for a couple of reasons, not least among which was that the Valkyrie insisted she be addressed as King, not Queen. Asgardians had some pretty conservative gender politics that Brunhilde seemed to delight in smashing. Strange had at one point made the foolish mistake of commending her for all she’d managed to accomplish, despite inhospitable gender norms. She had thrown a knife into the wall, grazing him so closely that a few of his grey hairs had wound up on the floor. He’d left the knife there, to serve as a reminder for himself as well as to get the Valkyrie King in a good mood when she came in.

It didn’t work today. When she entered, her voice shook the walls of the sanctum’s foyer. “Where is he?”

Strange had materialized on the landing above when he’d heard the door slam. “Your Majesty,” he said with a smirk and a shallow bow, “a pleasure as always.”

The snarl that earned him would have sent a lesser man running. “Don’t try that shit with me, Strange,” she barked, mounting the steps. Her eyes were bright with rage and, if Strange was to hazard a guess, hard liquor. “I’ll ask only once more: where is Loki of Jotunheim?”

Strange tapped his lip, eyes narrowed pensively. “‘Loki of Jotunheim,’ hmm? ‘Jotunheim,’ ‘Jotunheim’... I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name. Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”

His space was invaded, but he held his ground. “Thor told me everything, wizard,” the Valkyrie growled. “That bastard will stand trial in New Asgard for his crimes.”

Strange folded his arms. “And which crimes are those, exactly?”

She returned with vitriol, “Sabotage, treason, murder, theft, collusion with a hostile entity, invading another of the nine realms - shall I go on?”

“Are there more?”

Brunhilde produced a hip flask. “No, actually, I do think that’s the entire list,” she said frankly before taking a long drink.

Strange extended his hand. “We’ll be more comfortable in the study.”

Stowing her flask, the Valkyrie dropped her palm in Stephen’s, and the next instant they appeared beneath the large round window on the sanctum’s second floor.

“Coffee? Tea?” Strange asked as he moved to sit in his favored armchair.

Brunhilde’s smile was cold. “Just the blood of the traitor prince will be fine, thank you.”

Strange didn’t offer her a seat; she’d take one when she was good and ready.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” Strange began as the cup of coffee he’d conjured was autonomously stirred by a likewise-conjured spoon, “but I seem to remember you forsaking Asgard entirely when you left for Sakaar. Might I ask why you now seem intent on getting Loki to capitulate to the court of public opinion for crimes against the crown?”

Brunhilde ran her fingers over the symbols engraved along the edge of a low wooden table. “Being King means that I serve my people.” She leveled a hard gaze at the sorcerer. “My people desire Loki’s head on a stick.”

Stephen took up his coffee. “Ah, so it’s a, ‘heavy is the head that wears the crown,’ ‘their-bloodlust-is-your-own,’ kind of thing?”

Pacing the room’s perimeter, Brunhilde replied, “Something like that, sure. He’s also just a monumental sack of –”

“But, wait,” Strange interjected, as if struck with a thought, “wasn’t he the one that brought the _Statesman_ to Asgard? You know, the ship that carried all of your people here?” He sipped his coffee.

Dark, kohl-rimmed eyes pinned Strange to his chair. “Asgardians live a long time, wizard,” she said, “and our memories are quite good. Loki may have had a hand in saving those who survived Ragnarok, but before he did that, he caused a lot of people a lot of pain.”

Strange nodded. “I have no trouble imagining that’s the case,” he conceded.

The Valkyrie laid her hands flat on the table, leaning forward. “Then give me my prisoner, and I will be on my way.”

“Unfortunately,” Strange continued, “doctors on Earth have to take this nasty thing called the Hippocratic Oath which, among other dictates, says that we can do no harm to our patients. And I can’t help but get this funny feeling that Loki – wherever he _might_ be – wouldn’t be terribly safe in New Asgard.”

Brunhilde straightened slowly. “And how long will Loki be your patient for, Doctor? Another week? A month?” Her shoulders relaxed somewhat as she found her flask again, mumbling into it, “I can’t imagine he’s much for pleasant company.”

Strange made a noncommittal sound. “I can think of at least two creatures I prefer his company to, so I suppose that’s something.”

That got him the laugh he’d been hoping for. Making her way over, Brunhilde let herself fall into the chair across from Stephen with a deep sigh. “Fine, then. Let’s hear it.”

Strange’s eyebrows approached his hairline. “Just like that?”

She shrugged, throwing one leg over the arm of her chair. “Thor said you’d try to change my mind. Maybe I’m just conserving my energy before I kick your ass and drag Loki out by his hair.”

Strange smiled. “Fair enough.”

~*~

“So, let me see if I’m understanding you here, Doctor,” Brunhilde said, brows knit together. “You’re saying that it wouldn’t be right for us to try Loki for the crimes he committed, because he’s somehow not the same person who did those things?”

Strange cocked his head. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it, yes.”

The Valkyrie held out her arms. “But he _is_ still the person who committed those crimes, Strange. You can’t just absolve someone of their guilt because they’ve had a change of heart – that’s insanity.”

Strange sighed. “Let me put it another way,” he offered. “When you were on Sakaar, you were basically a slaver, right?”

Brunhilde’s eyes narrowed. “I was a scrapper. There’s a difference.”

Strange scoffed. “Really? Could’ve fooled me. You went out and scavenged for ship parts and for people, and when you found people, you sold them to the Grandmaster.” Strange exaggerated a grimace alongside his shrug. “Kind of sounds like you were a slaver.”

“What’s your point?” she snapped. She was getting worked up, Strange thought. Good.

He schooled his expression. “How do you think your loyal subjects would feel if they knew their king had spent years – and it really _was_ years, wasn’t it, Your Majesty? – trafficking flesh to be thrown into the meat grinder of commercialized public combat? How would you feel about getting brought in front of a tribunal for the things you did back then?”

She scoffed. “After everything I’ve done for these people? No way.” It took a moment for the pieces to click into place, but once they had Brunhilde’s expression fell. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled.

“Just to be clear,” Strange followed up, “I’m not suggesting that I would divulge that information. I’m just trying to bring you around to my way of thinking.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “No, no, I get it,” the Valkyrie sighed. “If I’m willing to make exceptions for myself I’ve got to make them for everyone, haven’t I?” Her smile was weak, but it was there.

“Alright, Doctor: I’ll think on what you’ve said.” Stowing her flask for the final time, Brunhilde stood and said with a pointed look, “but I’m reserving the right to come back for him. If I can’t convince them…” she trailed off.

Strange stood. “You’ll be back, I know.”

The smile of a forsworn Valkyrie is a dangerous thing, but Strange thought Brunhilde wore it well. “I’ll be back,” she agreed.

Once the study’s door had fallen shut behind her, Strange threw a look over his shoulder. “Are you going to come out now, or do you intend to hide behind that tapestry for the rest of the afternoon?”

Silence was his answer. Stifling a groan, Stephen turned around, walked back to the far end of the study and stood before a tapestry depicting the life and death of a famous hero. He cleared his throat, waited. Still nothing. A snap of his fingers saw the thing rolled up like a scroll, revealing a scrawny Asgardian in jeans and a t-shirt.

Loki tried to draw him in with a smile. “You’ve found me out, wizard – well done. I’ll just see myself out, shall I?”

It took very little effort to stop Loki in his tracks; a palm on his chest as he attempted to move by was enough. “Loki,” Strange warned, “why are you in my study?”

Loki’s eyes darted back and forth, mind working. Strange felt Loki’s pulse picking up in his chest and took a moment to perform what he’d come to think of as a “check-in”. A barely-there wave of magic passed over Loki’s body, linked to Strange’s mind by a gossamer thread. Heart, lungs, muscles, stomach… that Asgardian biology was close enough to human for his medical training to be of use was a blessing that did not go unnoticed by Stephen.

Loki’s condition had been improving at rapid pace, but he was far from what Strange would consider fully recovered. His cheeks were still a little hollow, and while his eyes had brightened, they still sat deep in their sockets. He was gaining weight quickly – something else they needed to monitor – and so far, there had been no indication to Strange that Loki’s magical abilities were present or were likely to return.

This was information he had so far declined to share with Loki. It was clear to Stephen by now that he had developed something of a soft spot for the erstwhile demi-god, and he could only imagine the pain and disappointment it would bring to learn that he had lost his connection to his magic. What’s more, the visceral disgust Loki felt for his unglamoured Jotun form had so troubled Stephen that he had, almost without thinking, surreptitiously applied a glamour of his own. He needed to be close by – at least in the same zip code– to keep up the illusion, but recent events had seen Strange with more cause than usual to remain at the sanctum. And if Loki thought he was applying the glamour himself, if he could spend his time recovering instead of slogging through self-loathing and depression - well, there wasn’t much reason for Strange to say otherwise, was there?

Loki had evidently settled on an explanation that he liked: “I was merely searching for the book you recommended. When I heard the Valkyrie, I…” He sent Strange a dubious look. “What else could I have done?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Face your fears, announce yourself, teleport out… anything, really,” Stephen said easily.

Loki stepped back, leaving Strange’s hand to fall to his side as Loki scowled. “You need not mock me, Strange,” he groused. “You know as well as I do that I can’t teleport, not anymore.”

Strange couldn’t help himself; he tilted his head conspiratorially. “Come now, Loki – don’t be coy. You can deny it all you like, but if you’ve got magic enough to glamour yourself and read minds, there’s no way I’m buying into the ‘I’m harmless’ routine.”

It felt wrong to deceive him, but the flash of something _alive_ in Loki’s eyes was good enough consolation. Loki drew himself up, managing an imperious look down his nose at Strange. “Perhaps you’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” he said smoothly.

Stephen couldn’t help smiling if he’d wanted to. It was only in the last few days that he’d seen Loki smile back at him – an easy, unguarded thing, small but genuine. Stephen… liked it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a rational voice was chanting _shit, shit, shit…_

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for Loki to follow. “Wong’s making goat stew. You’re going to love it.”

Stephen realized with mounting horror that he had begun to see Loki’s enthusiastic response to food as _endearing_ , and started to understand just how much trouble he might be in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The highly-bastardized Xhosa phrases are the result of an afternoon spent with Google translate. They loosely translate to things like "stop", "prison", "rope", etc.
> 
> I like the idea of Stephen "getting to know" Loki through his memories before they've had a chance to spend much time together. Plus, front-loading Stephen with feels makes my job a lot easier ;P


	9. Ask Me No Questions...

It wasn’t so much that Loki had wanted to conceal his presence from the _wizard_ when he’d taken cover behind the tapestry in the study. It was really just the Valkyrie that Loki had worried about.

Brunhilde’s voice was one Loki was reasonably sure he’d never forget. As he’d picked through the stacks of books Strange had brought into the guest library, the Valkyrie’s shouting had reached him in his distant corner of the sanctum. Searching for a place to conceal himself from Brunhilde’s ire, his gaze had fallen to the study’s heavy door.

So, it had, in fact, been true when Loki said he’d been looking for a book Strange had recommended… he’d simply ‘forgotten’ that the study was off-limits when the doctor was out. Silly him.

Given that secrecy was not his primary goal – at least not once the Valkyrie had left – Loki wasn’t especially bothered when Strange had found him out.

“You can deny it all you like,” Strange had said, “but if you’ve got magic enough to glamour yourself and read minds, there’s no way I’m buying into the ‘I’m harmless’ routine.”

Oddly enough, Loki had felt his chest swell pridefully. _He’s right to be afraid,_ a version of himself had whispered. _I am powerful. I am dangerous. I do as I please._

Loki sniffed. “Perhaps you’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” he’d permitted, and it had felt familiar. Felt _good_.

His mind had been steadily putting itself back together over the past week or so, during which time Strange had spent dutiful hours working to restore Loki’s body. Loki had at first felt awkward and uncomfortable under the wizard’s clinical attention, but once the first few days of Loki’s stay at the sanctum had passed he found himself anxious to share his progress with his physician.

“Squeeze,” the doctor instructed, holding two fingers in each of Loki’s palms.

Loki did as he was asked, watching Strange’s face. The man had a gift for impassive concentration, though today a twitch of his eyebrow betrayed him. “Good,” he said, pressing his thumbs against the backs of Loki’s fingers to signal for his release. “Very good.”

Something fluttered in Loki’s stomach. Just hunger, probably.

“How’s your energy?” Strange inquired, producing a device Loki had learned was called a ‘stethoscope’.

“Low,” Loki admitted. The chill of the stethoscope’s bell on his chest made him hiss. “Cold,” he protested childishly.

Strange retrieved the bell and breathed a few puffs of warm air onto it before returning it to Loki’s chest. “Better?” he asked wryly.

“A little, yes.”

Strange nodded. “Breathe in… and out. Good. Again: in… and out. Great.” Strange took out a small black book and scribbled something inside. “And how are the sashes? Comfortable, too tight, too loose?”

Ah, yes, the _sashes_. The infernal things wrapped around Loki’s arms were quite pretty to look at, if he was honest – they’d even gotten his color scheme right – but they rankled the same part of him that took exception to being confined... like he was being kept as a _pet_. It didn’t help that Loki was fairly sure the sashes were impeding his magical abilities.

It was clear that Strange had found a way to restrict Loki's access to the Seidr, the magic that wove together the forces of fate and creation – the font from which Loki’s magic had flowed for as long as he could remember. That was the only explanation he could think of that would account for his being able to sustain his glamour, and nothing more. He _had_ managed to read Stark’s mind when he’d first awakened, but the impressions had been choppy and incomplete. Loki suspected Strange wouldn’t allow him to try it again, and he hadn’t asked.

“How long must I wear them?” Loki didn’t meet the doctor’s eyes.

Strange continued scribbling. “If they’re not hurting you, then I’d like you to keep them on.”

A non-answer, Loki observed flatly.

The exam would last only a few minutes more, and as the end approached Loki mustered his resolve. “May I ask you something, Strange?”

The little black book and its pen disappeared into Strange’s robe. “Certainly.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Strange continued his examination as if Loki hadn’t spoken at all. “We walk before we run, and we crawl before we walk. Such is the tedium of rehabilitation.” He held his fingertips under Loki’s toes. “Push down,” he instructed.

Loki did; his legs trembled with the effort, but Strange’s hands didn’t seem to move at all. “Good,” the doctor said again, but the praise didn’t feel the same.

“I mean,” Loki pressed, “why are you helping me?”

Strange let his hands fall away, and for some reason it felt like a loss. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “It’s what I do.”

Frustration clouded Loki’s mind, but its focus began to blur as fatigue swiftly overcame him. “You know what I...” he muttered before lying back down, but the rest of the sentence wouldn’t come. “You know…”

As his eyes fell shut he felt gentle hands move his legs beneath the quilt, tucking the upper edge in under his ribs. “I know,” Strange might have said, but Loki was too far gone to be sure.

~*~

It had been weeks, and Loki was losing his patience.

He’d grown well enough to move through the sanctum on his own, his strength building with each passing day. He was bound to a set number of rooms, but so far, he’d not been able to even _find_ them all. Strange had gone to lengths to ensure that his guest wouldn’t be bored, happily supplying him with books, games, puzzles – but when he’d tried and failed to access the Seidr once again, Loki had felt his temper flare high and hot.

Further inquiry had seen Strange remain vague about the purpose and power of the gold and green sashes that were perpetually wrapped around Loki’s arms. He would say only that they would prevent Loki from intentionally hurting anyone.

“This is magical castration, wizard," he protested, following the man down the hall that led to his study. "Surely you cannot expect me to spend the rest of my not-inconsiderable days like… like…”

Strange opened the study door with a wave of his hand. “Like the rest of us?” Strange had agreed to investigate possible explanations for Loki’s powerlessness while denying that the cause laid with him, or with the sashes.

Loki glared at the back of his head, following through the door. “No, not like _you_. _You_ keep your power for yourself.”

Strange wasted no time, running his fingers along the spines of the well-ordered books that lined the study’s shelves. “This power isn’t one that can be ‘kept’. It’s there for anyone with the knowledge and aptitude to use it,” he said.

“And you would refuse me your knowledge?”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “Interesting that you assume you have the aptitude." He retrieved a book, flipped through it, and put it on his desk. “I don’t want the hand I’m feeding with to get bitten,” he said simply.

Loki didn’t hide that he was insulted by Strange's familiarity. “I beg your pardon?”

Strange made a disinterested noise, pointedly ignoring him in favor of perusing the contents of the four books he now kept levitating in front of him. Like he was rubbing Loki’s _face_ in it.

Loki felt an angry flush creep up his neck. He strode forward, shoulders raised, hands itching. “Listen here, you... you _second-rate –”_

No sooner had Loki raised his hands - he wasn't exactly sure for what purpose, other than that of making Strange _hurt_ \- than his fingers and arms cramped up, falling uselessly to his sides as he cried out - more in frustration than pain. And still, Strange didn't even look at him.

“I did tell you about the sashes, didn’t I?” he asked blandly, eyes skimming over runes and long-dead languages. “Though I do have a question: a ‘second-rate,’ what? That’s the second time you’ve said that to me, and you’ve never followed up with a noun.”

Loki clenched his jaw so hard his teeth creaked. “I could certainly try to think of one now, if you’d like.”

When insistence and veiled threats failed him, Loki turned to other tools of persuasion. “Come now, wizard – surely there is some arrangement to which we might come.”

Strange laughed outright. “And now you’re making bargains? I must say, it’s good to see you rebounding so quickly. They’ll be glad to hear news of your recovery in New Asgard, I’m sure.”

Loki approached, cutting off Strange’s path to the rest of the room and stalling him next to a spinning globe. “You cannot seriously intend to send me there.”

Strange idly set the globe turning with the hand not busy levitating his books, a shallow crease in his brow as he said, “I’m not sure why I would intend anything else.”

Loki scoffed. “It won’t exactly be a hero’s welcome that I’ll be getting, will it?”

“I fail to see how that is in any way my problem.”

“I can be useful to you.”

Strange arched one of his infuriatingly perfect eyebrows, spinning the globe again. “And what use do you think I have for you here?”

Loki scrambled – _Think!_ “I… I have connections, contacts off-world.”

An unimpressed hum and a squint were Strange’s reply.

“I can read and write two hundred languages fluently.”

“There are apps for that.”

Loki felt a retort burning on his tongue but swallowed it down, changing tack. “You would miss our lively repartee, wizard. Don’t try to deny it.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the shelf in a way he hoped looked confident and casual. “Who else but me can keep you so intellectually stimulated?”

Strange had the _gall_ to _wrinkle his nose_.

It was getting hard to talk around the lump of anger and nerves Loki had in his throat. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?”

Loki hated everything about the imperious, self-satisfied smile that tugged up one corner of Strange’s wretched little mouth. He grit his teeth, felt his hands clench and unclench in his sleeves… but he kept his head. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, counted to five.

He straightened, looked Strange in the eye. “Please, may I stay?”

The blank stare he got in response was as gratifying as it was confusing. Loki had thought for sure that was what Strange had been trying to get him to say, but the man’s stunned expression suggested otherwise.

For long moments the silence stretched between them. Loki was forced at last to avert his eyes awkwardly, his mettle dwindling fast. Setting the levitating books down on the desk, Strange fussed with aligning their covers as he said reluctantly, “There would have to be... rules, in place.”

Loki felt his eyes grow wide. “Of course,” he blurted, uncertain he was ready to believe that this was happening. “Yes, of course, anything you –” He stopped himself, cleared his throat. _Don’t get carried away_. “Whatever you think is appropriate, Doctor.”

Strange nodded, more to himself than to Loki, looking as if he too wasn’t quite able to believe what he was saying. “I’ll need to think on it,” he grumbled. “Speak with me tomorrow.”

Loki did what he thought was a fairly good job of not falling over himself in his haste to leave the room. Once the door to the study had clicked shut behind him, Loki pressed his back against the wall and laughed breathlessly. Did that really just happen? He’d asked to stay, and the wizard had said “yes”! Loki covered his mouth with a hand to stifle what was likely to be some kind of giggling fit. _This changes everything_ , he thought, making his way back towards his room. There was a library here, and rare artifacts – things to learn and study. He’d be spared a torturous reintroduction to the people he’d managed to offend so deeply that not even his saving their lives was sufficient to outweigh their resentment of him. 

Thor would have something to say about it, no doubt, but he and the wizard were on good terms, weren’t they? And surely his brother would not protest to Loki’s continued association with an ally of the Avengers.

What’s more, staying at the sanctum was Loki’s best bet for learning how to restore his power. Whether or not Strange spoke true would become apparent in time; he would either release Loki of his bonds, or Loki would discern the means of his control and disrupt it.

He felt his strength leaving him as he pushed through the door to his room and made a beeline for the bed. Soon, Loki told himself, he would have his strength back. Soon, he would know as much about the sorcerer - and his power - as he needed to restore himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you thought in the comments <3 To stay updated on this and other works in the Endgame Epilogue series, why not try out that nice shiny “subscribe” button? ;)


	10. ... And I'll Tell You No Lies

Wong didn’t speak to Stephen for four days, and he spent the better part of two weeks at Kamar-Taj.

“Angry” would have been an understatement. “Pissed off” lacked depth. “Betrayed” came close, and that had hurt when Stephen realized it – but in the end, Wong had returned to New York, ready to assist. He’d even brought back _lakhamari_ from that one street vendor in Kathmandu – a looping sunburst of fried sweet bread that had brought Stephen to tears the first time he’d had it. As far as olive branches went, he’d admit that Wong had picked a good one.

That didn’t mean he was thrilled with the new... _living arrangement_.

He’d said as much – and plenty more – to Stephen upon his return, things about trust and planetary security and the fact that Strange still had a job to do, and what if Dormammu or something worse was to come to the door while Stephen was caught up in his “side project”? These and Wong’s other concerns were laid to rest by promises that were a combination of earnestly made and demonstrably executed – mainly taking the form of ramping up sanctum security. Wards were applied and laid redundantly, and fully half of the sanctum was non-negotiably off-limits to their guest. This included the artifact rooms, master library, cellar, attic, and the entire residential wing. That left Loki with access to Strange’s study (doubly-warded), his own quarters, the foyer and kitchen. There was also what Strange referred to as the “guest library” in Loki’s half of the sanctum. Strange figured that the longer he was able to keep Loki entertained, the less likely his mind would be to wander towards mischief - or depression. Idle hands, and all that.

It was during their two-day security spree that Stephen had tried here and there to drop what he’d hoped were persuasive tidbits into his conversations with Wong. Arguably, it was for the better that Loki had expressed a desire to remain. It meant that escape attempts were unlikely, for one thing. For another, keeping potential problems close by meant that their solutions could be applied with minimal delay. Strange remained convinced that Loki didn’t pose a threat, not because of his lost magical abilities, but because he was a fundamentally different _person,_ now - but this wasn’t something that could be explained to Wong’s satisfaction.

The list of rules was not long. Among them were that Loki should continue with his physical therapy and help around the sanctum, mainly with organizational tasks, as he was able. There had been a recent influx of texts from the library at Kamar-Taj that had rendered some of the spare rooms crowded and cluttered; in exchange for helping Strange organize them, Loki was permitted to read and ask questions. There were to be no unsupervised outings, and attempting to practice magic on his own was strictly forbidden. Strange had caught the twitch in Loki’s forehead when that rule was touched on, but Loki said nothing, so neither did Strange.

For his part, Loki appeared happy to accept the terms Strange and Wong laid out for him. The three-man meeting had been tense, at first; between Wong’s sour expression and Loki’s reservations about speaking to the other master at all, Stephen had his work cut out for him. By the end of the hour, though, the three were sharing pistachio lassis at the kitchen island, chatting – even laughing.

Thor took the news quite well, once he was done with the mix of crying, cautioning, and consoling he insisted upon imparting to his brother. Strange made himself scarce as the two spoke in Loki’s quarters, though the peaks of their conversation made it to Strange as he sat in his study.

The truth of the matter was that Strange desperately needed a distraction for Loki, and hoped that Thor’s visit might do the trick. He’d never admit it, but Wong had been right about one thing: Loki _had_ been taking up a lot of Strange’s time, and there were other matters that needed his attention.

Once such matter was the as-yet unsolved mystery of the assault on the Hong Kong sanctum. News of a second attempt to breach its defenses had reached Strange just this morning – another failure, but that was cold comfort. Returns on his research so far had been scant, and he felt as if he was running out of options. It had been with this thought in mind that Strange had turned to his second-least-favorite form of mystical reconnaissance: scrying.

The vessel of his choosing was one that hadn’t seen the light of day for at least a few thousand years – a chawan, or large tea bowl, made of dark clay and glazed in browns and greens, taken from the attic. Strange wanted to be sure that there was no chance his scrying vessel had been tampered with or exposed to contemporary magic. What he was looking for required an untarnished view into the distant past.

Legends, folklore, and a small number of architectural records had helped narrow down the list of creatures and entities that might be sponsoring the attacks in Hong Kong. The top contender at the moment were the Makluan, a race of sapient reptiloids that long ago had taken the “divide and conquer” approach and run with it. Their home planet, Kakaranthara, had been quiet in the eons since a few of their number had left in search of worlds to conquer. What information Strange _had_ been able to find made it clear to him that Earth had not been spared their attention.

Strange straightened in his chair, breathed deeply, and spoke from his chest: “I summon forth the shielding powers of the Vishanti.”

In an instant, and with a sound like the cracking of an iced-over lake, a field of protective magic snapped over the study’s perimeter, its edges softly iridescent where the lamplight caught them. This first task complete, Strange breathed slowly through his nose, raising his hands as his eyes fell shut. “Great all-seeing Eye of Agamotto,” he intoned, “come to my aid, and broaden my sight.”

It may no longer have held the time stone, but the Eye that Strange kept around his neck was nevertheless replete with psychic power, endowed with a host of abilities by its creator – the first Sorcerer Supreme. As Strange’s words took shape the panels of the amulet shifted, revealing the darkened center of Agamotto’s eye. Strange’s next breath carried with it the smell of old parchment and cold, damp stone. His mind travelled down, down, through the scrying medium and into the fabric of reality and time, carried along by the Eye.

“What threatens the sanctums?” Strange didn’t recognize the voice as his own as it echoed inside his mind. “Who seeks the annihilation of the masters?”

Moments passed as his query resonated in the void, leaving him adrift in a lightless sea until the darkness at last gave way to color and light. Strange saw before him the beings that had inspired humanity’s myths of winged serpents, of scaled creatures with the power to bend rivers and move mountains - creatures that had arrived in China, circa 1400 BCE, if the architecture and agricultural methods were anything to go by. A cadre of Makluan, a few hundred strong, disguised themselves among the inhabitants of the planet they would one day conquer. Their navigator, the Great One, was secreted away into a vault beneath an ancient temple, left to slumber until the time was right.

It was a behemoth built of green scales and yellow fins, with bony spikes running the length of its spine and the sides of its tail. Its great, gaping, fish-like maw had on either side whiskers reminiscent of depictions of dragons in the Asian subcontinent; they moved gently in time with the creature’s breath.

_The hour of the Gathering has come at last,_ boomed the creature’s voice. _Kin of Maklua, gather your strength and bring low those who would stand in the way of our conquest._

Strange relented to the tug of his own time and space, returning to his body with a shudder. He blinked a few times, sat back in his chair and conjured a flame into the hearth, staring into it thoughtfully. Satisfied a minute later that nothing had come back with him, he dismissed the protective shield, reintegrating the study with the rest of the sanctum just in time for someone to knock at the door.

He sighed deeply. “Come,” he called.

The door swung inward to reveal a grinning Thor, with Loki in tow. “Wizard,” Thor boomed, “it has been far too long!”

Strange rose and rounded his desk. “Always a pleasure, Thor,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Thor’s eyes had been restored to him in the weeks since Strange had seen him in Salzburg. He’d kept his hair long, with the top pulled back, and his beard reached down to the middle of his chest. He’d kept some of his extra weight, and to great effect. Not Strange’s type, per se, but husky and muscular was a nice look on Thor, he had to admit.

Thor’s hands fell to Strange’s shoulders, upsetting his balance. “Never better, my friend,” he declared. “Loki tells me you’ve been a most gracious host.”

Strange smiled, looking over Thor’s shoulder at the man in question. “And all despite my best efforts,” he lamented drily. “I’ll have to work harder to make him miserable, then.”

Loki’s eyes danced. “Don’t strain yourself, Doctor,” he cautioned. “A man of your years must take care to avoid overexertion.”

Thor chuckled. “I’ll admit, wizard, I was unsure how well Loki would do here - but it seems that my concerns were unfounded.”

Strange shrugged. “He’s smart, motivated, puts in the effort. His recovery reflects that.”

Thor smiled proudly while behind him, Loki… huh. There was a dusting of color on Loki’s cheeks. Was he…?

Curious, Strange went on. “Really, it’s remarkable,” he said, going for conversational. “Muscle atrophy is one of the most difficult long-term traumatic insults the body can sustain. The fact that he can walk around as much as he does puts him leagues above even my most optimistic expectations. He should be proud of himself.”

Loki turned to one of the bookcases near the door of the study, but it wasn’t enough to conceal the pinkish tint that had overtaken his ears. “You may need to temper your expectations for _mortals_ , Doctor, but do not forget that I am a _god_.” His voice positively dripped with condescension.

Strange snorted just to get a rise out of Loki, and it worked – he whirled around and scowled at the sorcerer, realizing too late that doing so put his rosy cheeks on full display. Strange wasn’t a cruel man; he spared Loki a knowing look before turning his attention back to Thor.

“Will you be staying a while with us, Thor, or do you have business elsewhere?”

Thor sighed. “Alas, duty calls,” he said, “and I am sworn to answer. The Valkyrie requests my presence in New Asgard.”

“Well,” Strange said, patting Thor’s shoulder, “next time you’re in town, feel free to stop by.”

With that, Thor took his leave, followed close behind by Loki – the latter shooting Strange what he probably thought was a withering glare. Alone again in the study, Strange sat, pondering his course of action. It wasn’t until many minutes later that he realized with a start that, rather than scrutinizing his vision and planning his next move, all he’d done was think back on the way Loki’s cheeks had looked, flushed pink and working hard to contain a smile.

_This isn’t a problem,_ he told himself. _No – not a problem at all_. It wasn’t a problem because there was no "it". His... _feelings_ , about seeing Loki happy, were totally professional, rooted in the doctor-patient relationship. Happiness and healing went hand-in-hand; a positive mood was more conducive to healing. That's all it was, he told himself, and he felt his shoulders relax. Yeah.

Definitely not a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is absolutely a problem.
> 
> Or is it... a _solution_ to a _different_ problem?
> 
> ~*~ Who knows! Mysteries abound! Tune in next time for more plot, feelings and character development! ~*~


	11. Only Fools Rush In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki does some math. The situation with the Hong Kong sanctum grows more serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to make a Strangefrost:
> 
> 1\. Stir the plot until it thickens to desired consistency.
> 
> 2\. Make liberal use of miscommunication for emotional effect.
> 
> 3\. Let everything simmer down to an emotional climax.
> 
> 4\. Do not wait for your Strangefrost to cool. Serve immediately. Garnish with sexual tension as desired.

Logic and argumentation are skills so basic for a being as ancient as Loki that it would be an indictment of his mind and character if he weren’t able, at over 1,000 years old, to chase down matters of cause, effect, and motivation.

Naturally, _sentiment_ stood to muddy the water.

There were certain things that didn’t quite add up, to Loki’s mind, with regard to Strange. Things he’d said and done, a word here, a comment there, that made him question whether the doctor-turned-sorcerer was being entirely honest not just with him, but with his closest associates.

In the conversation Loki had overheard between Strange and Wong, the first day he’d awoken in the sanctum, the sorcerer had said that Loki wasn’t “magically dangerous” to ease Wong’s mind. Yet, when they had met to discuss the terms of Loki’s remaining at the sanctum, their list of rules said that Loki attempting to practice magic _on his own_ was forbidden.

If Loki _could_ practice magic, as the institution of this rule would suggest, would that not mean that he was at least _potentially_ dangerous? Loki had the distinct impression that this would have been a sticking point for Wong. And, if Strange had spoken truly and Loki really was devoid of magical potential – a thought that made him shudder – then what would the point be of including such a rule? To string Loki along? To keep up a ruse? Surely not; the doctor was calculating, certainly, but he didn’t strike Loki as cruel.

This, in isolation, may have seemed to Loki odd but not nefarious. The more he learned, however, the more difficult it became to deny that there was something unusual about Strange’s behavior when it came to discussing his guest. Hearing Strange talk about him to Brunhilde had been particularly enlightening, in more ways than one.

The wizard had held back what Loki considered many of the key details when describing his journey through Loki’s memories, for which he was grateful. To hear Strange tell it, Loki was some kind of tragic hero – a notion at which Loki would have openly scoffed, had doing so not meant putting himself in the path of the Valkyrie’s sword. A hero _…_ _ridiculous_.

Then again… maybe not _so_ ridiculous.

According to Strange, in a different timeline, Loki had fled with the tesseract when Asgard burned and made his way to Jotunheim. Comments were made, judgements cast, biases confirmed… but Thanos never would have attacked the _Statesman_. Instead, Thor and the remaining Asgardians would all have been spared. Loki would be denounced, reviled, cast once again in the role of the villain, all the while knowing that Thanos would find and kill him in the end. Loki made the decision to return to the one place he’d never wanted to go in order to save what remained of his family - or at least, that’s what Strange had said.

In some ways, Loki was disappointed he hadn’t thought of it himself, at the time. That _would_ have prevented a great many casualties, at the cost of only his own life – a life that was forfeit, regardless, it seemed.

His attention had been caught next by the Valkyrie asking Strange whether he thought Loki might have sinister designs for New Asgard.

“You have little to fear from him, I should think,” Strange had replied. “He didn’t come back the same in more ways than one.”

“What d’you mean?”

Strange's tone was dismissive as he'd said, “He’s not able to do anything more dramatic than maintain a glamour.”

Loki had bristled silently.

“And you don’t think he’ll get it back? Isn't that a thing that happens sometimes with you… magic types?”

“Even if he did, I have ways of keeping it suppressed. As long as he remains with me, he’s not a threat.”

Minutes later, once the Valkyrie had left and Strange had exposed Loki’s hiding place, he’d all but told Loki that what he’d said to her wasn’t true – or, at the very least, that he had been deliberately misleading her. When Loki had later inquired as to the reason behind this double-speak, Strange had said, “To them, it’s all the same: you either have magic or you don’t. But you and I know it’s more complicated than that." He'd shot Loki a narrow look. "And I know a powerful magic user when I see one.”

Loki had heard _everything_ – if Strange was trying to deceive or falsely flatter him, the arithmetic of his deception had been poorly thought-out. Knowing what he knew about the wizard, Loki felt that this was unlikely. The only logical conclusion from there was that Strange either thought Loki was prodigiously stupid – which was utterly impossible – or was, in fact, in the practice of lying to his associates.

Loki grappled - painlessly, he told himself - with the fact that if Strange was in the habit of deceiving his friends, he surely wouldn't hesitate to deceive Loki. Strange had plainly said to the Valkyrie that he had ways of suppressing Loki’s magic, but he insisted to Loki at every turn that he’d done nothing to tamper with his abilities. It seemed most likely that the sashes themselves were powerful magical artifacts that disrupted Loki’s connection to the Seidr, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why Strange insisted upon denying this.

Despite Loki’s uneasiness, he had taken to chatting with Strange as they organized the books from Kamar-Taj. Strange had one day asked Loki what he planned to do once he was well again.

“I don’t know,” Loki had answered truthfully. “Thor has been dropping hints that he wishes me to join his merry band of misfits.”

Strange had abandoned his examination of an especially ancient tome to send a look Loki’s way. “The _Avengers_? Seriously?” he’d deadpanned. Loki had no response and so provided none, and a moment later Strange had returned to his work, saying, “They wouldn’t have any idea what to do with you.”

Loki had been helpless to suppress his grin. “Oh? And what ideas do _you_ have on what to do with me, doctor?"

Strange’s steely gaze was compromised by an upward twitch of his lips. “Watch it, Odinson.”

Loki’s mind had returned, much too quickly, _Or what?_ He was comforted to know that, at the very least, Strange wasn’t listening in on his thoughts; that would certainly have elicited _some_ kind of response.

That was not the last time he and Strange spoke on the topic of the Avengers. One evening, Strange had returned to the sanctum after what had evidently been One Hell of a Day. A trip through no fewer than three neighboring dimensions had seen Strange conscripted by the Avengers to chase down what the sorcerer referred to as their “kiddie-pool villain du jour”, only to realize that the culprit had been in _this_ dimension the entire time. This was, Loki had begun to realize, quite a thankless job that Strange had gotten himself into.

His referring to the Avengers as a “stupid boy-band” had prompted Loki to clarify, “There are women among their number, are there not?”

Strange had dropped into an armchair, the Cloak making its escape before Stephen could sit on it. “It's more about the denigrating epithet than gender politics,” he’d sighed.

Loki had frowned somewhat, palming over the books that laid before him. “You don’t seem to care much for the people who are supposed to be your allies,” he remarked.

Strange had chuffed. “Our views do not always align. They get frustrated because I don’t tell them about every interstellar or quasi-temporal crisis I handle, and most of them don't have a clue how I do what I do. Makes the science-types nervous.”

“So, there’s much you don’t tell them?” Loki had carefully clarified.

“I know a lot more about them than they know about me. Let’s leave it at that."

As weeks went by their conversations grew more intimate, went later into the evening. In time Loki came to take great joy in drawing comparisons between himself and the wizard – mainly because of the endlessly amusing expressions into which Strange’s face would contort.

“People like us are... what was it I once said? ‘Burdened with glorious purpose’?” Loki had smirked as Strange feigned gagging. Loki went on, “We see things not only as they are, but as they might be.”

“Yes,” the sorcerer had agreed, “and because of that, we have a responsibility to protect and help others.”

Loki had sent the doctor a disgusted look. “Gods, but you sound like the Captain.” Loki had met the man but briefly and felt that it had been quite enough time to take the measure of him.

“Captain _America_?” Strange had balked, jostling a precariously leaning stack of books. “You did _not_ just compare me to _Steve Rogers_.”

There was no doubt in Loki's mind that his face had plainly shown his ill-suppressed, mischievous glee. “I think I may have. What will you do about it?” he’d challenged.

Strange had cocked an eyebrow and turned his attention pointedly back to his reading. “Cancel the trip to the museum,” he’d said carelessly.

Loki’s face had fallen. “What? No!” Strange had promised to take him to Midgard’s Smithsonian Museum - in the mirror dimension, of course - after Loki had expressed boredom with the monoglotinous subject matter in the literature from Kamar-Taj. Fascinating though these “mystic arts” were, Loki craved variety.

Sharp eyes had pinned Loki to his seat. “Take it back,” Strange had commanded softly.

Loki’s breath had caught in his throat, and he’d felt a reply smooth itself onto his tongue: _Make me._

“Fine, fine, I take it back,” Loki relented in a hurry, “though I don’t know what you’re complaining about. He’s considered quite attractive by Midgardian standards, isn’t he?”

“To some, I’m sure.”

“To many, I should think.”

“It’s almost like you WANT me to cancel our trip.”

Loki felt himself drawn back to the present. The thread he was following – the peculiarity of Strange’s distaste for the Avengers – became lost as he was forced to begrudgingly acknowledge that he _had_ come to enjoy the time he spent in the doctor’s company. Strange had begun taking Loki to the place he called the Rotunda of Gateways – an alcove in the sanctum within which were housed three doors, each a portal to different places on Earth. In the month or so since Loki had come to stay at the sanctum Strange had taken him walking through lantern-lit garden paths, shaded forests and pristine coastlines, often in companionable silence. When they spoke, the wizard was quick-witted and sharp-tongued, readily meeting what challenges Loki provided – riddles, trivia, logical arguments. Strange had been a physician of the mind, until his accident – little wonder then that his own mind was something to behold.

As time went by the doctor had begun to share things about himself, bits of personal history and insight, theories he’d developed and discarded.

It was like Strange wanted Loki to get to _know_ him.

Thoughts tangled, Loki elected to meditate. Relaxed, reclining, and still, he felt his attention float like dust motes to a drafty window, drawn into an air current of subconscious thought. He tried not to be frustrated that his mind immediately returned to the sorcerer.

When he had asked to stay, he hadn’t anticipated Strange’s response: blue-grey eyes gone wide in surprise, lips slightly parted, and once he'd collected himself his tongue had darted out to wet them, pink and shiny and… and that image _did things_ to Loki that he wasn’t entirely prepared for: a pressure low in his belly. When was the last time he’d felt _aroused_ …?

Shaking himself, Loki attempted to gently reroute his focus, only to recall yet another moment in the study with Strange. He’d _complimented_ Loki, and in front of Thor, no less. Loki remembered the ache in his cheeks as he’d tried not to grin like a simpleton at such paltry praise as “smart” and “motivated”. But then Strange had _gone on_ , said Loki should be _proud of himself_ , that he had _exceeded_ the sorcerer’s expectations, and now it was all Loki could do to try and ignore the thrill of that moment, how warm he’d felt his face become, how he’d turned away so that Strange wouldn’t see him flushing up to his _ears_ –

Loki groaned, running his hands through his hair. This was hopeless – a completely untenable state of affairs: he simply could not get Strange out of his head. Maybe this was a spell, too – another way Strange was trying to control him. Loki swallowed hard as he considered what else Strange might get him to do, what else he might make him feel.

That thought… didn’t trouble Loki as much as it probably should have.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t allow himself to be taken in so easily by a few kind words and a pretty face, but it was by now clear to Loki that his will was not as strong as it had once been. Almost as soon as his next thought came through it was gone again – lost in his reconsideration of Strange’s face, his eyes, the cant of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw and the way his Cloak of Levitation dramatically billowed out behind him now and then (he’d begun to suspect that the Cloak was doing this on purpose). Minutes passed this way before he leapt from his bed and began to pace, turning his thoughts resolutely away from the consideration of tempestuous eyes and dark hair and a perfect, bow-shaped mouth.

~*~

Night was falling on Kamar-Taj as Stephen Strange stalked its halls.

He’d managed to imbue a relic back at the New York sanctum with the spell sustaining Loki’s glamour. As long as their Asgardian houseguest stayed within city limits, he’d remain oblivious to Strange’s efforts. Even so, Strange had made enough offhand comments about the impenetrable difficulty of mystical etymology that Loki was unlikely to leave the guest library for the next twelve hours or so. Baiting him into studying felt manipulative, but there was no denying its efficacy.

There was a simmering anxiety in Stephen’s gut that had only grown harder to ignore as his duplicity had compounded in the months since Loki had come to stay at the sanctum. One lie led to another, and another, until Strange found himself in the unenviable position at the center of a precariously strung web. What had begun at first as a simple failure to correct the misconception that it was Loki, not Strange, who was responsible for Loki’s glamoured appearance had mutated into a clutter of half-truths and outright lies. He had been sloppy, careless.

His expression was evidently so dark that a small huddle of acolytes scattered at the mere sight of it as he crossed the training grounds. He gave serious thought to conjuring something to throw at the great iron bell that was suspended between two stone pillars at the edge of the courtyard, just to let off some steam. He thought better of it. In light of recent events, the masters of the temple would be forgiven for thinking that the noise was a call to arms.

A third assault on the Hong Kong sanctum was bad enough. Ancient texts and sacred scrolls safeguarded by the masters for centuries suddenly going missing was worse. But the cherry on top of this calamitous-situation-sundae was the sudden disappearance of Tina Minoru, the master of the Hong Kong sanctum.

Ancient doors of wood and iron groaned as Strange waved them open, striding briskly to a lamp-lit office. There were no doors between this hallway and the rooms that branched from it, with carved wooden screens acting as limited windows into each. Through the doorway Stephen strode, joining Wong and a handful of other masters at a table strewn with artifacts, diagrams, and papers.

His hands ached as he leaned on the table. “What do we know?”

One of the senior masters held out a scroll of parchment sealed with a coarse hemp ribbon. “The last missive from Master Minoru,” she explained. “She left instructions for her second in command to safeguard the sanctum in her absence.”

Strange scanned the message. “Did she say where she was going?”

The dark-skinned master at Stephen’s side produced a sheaf of parchment covered in precise, looping script, the tattoos across his knuckles rippling as he did. “Master Ishihara received word that Minoru and a handful of her acolytes were to be expected at a training retreat in Istanbul. Supplies and equipment were requisitioned for their journey, but the masters never arrived.”

The conversation went on for some minutes. Stephen found himself fidgeting as he surveyed their pile of dead-end leads and questions that should have been answers.

“Is there any chance she was taken?” he queried.

The master that had spoken first arched an incredulous brow. “A master of her age and skill? Lethal would be the enemy that could bring her low.”

Strange muttered darkly, “Lethal are the only kind we have.” Tense moments passed in silence before Wong spoke up.

“I looked into the records you asked after,” he said. “It’s not much, but there are a number of books, housed here in Kamar-Taj, that might have what you’re looking for.” He motioned to a small pile of books at the far corner of the table. Sending Strange a meaningful look, he added, “I can have them all in New York by tomorrow afternoon.”

Strange would thank him later. For now, he managed a curt nod. “Double security,” he told the assembled masters. “Triple it. As of sunrise tomorrow, no one – no master, no apprentice, _no one_ – leaves or enters any of the three sanctums.”

There was an immediate buzz of protest. “Make your arrangements,” he commanded tersely, “and speak to your people. I will not move on this. We must protect the sanctums at all costs.”

“Forgive me, Sorcerer Supreme,” insisted one of the masters, a short man with red hair braided down to his waist, “but how do you suppose locking down the sanctums will solve the problem of our missing master? What if she and her apprentices return, seeking shelter?”

Strange felt his eyebrow twitch. “This is an enemy we do not know, whose motivations we do not understand, and whose scope of power is so broad that it can launch assaults on the sanctums in broad daylight. Describe for me another threat with the potential to corrupt or otherwise compromise a master of the mystic arts.”

Appropriately cowed, the master retreated into a mumbled apology, and the meeting was concluded shortly thereafter.

~*~

Evenings in the library had become rather more somber affairs after Strange returned from Nepal. Rather than moderately-paced sorting and organizing interspersed with stretches of relaxed conversation, a dreary cast to Strange’s face and a tension he declined to explain served to render the atmosphere positively gloomy – nary a conversational tangent in sight. This was to Loki’s dissatisfaction, though he hesitated to properly examine why. Doing so would threaten the tenuous peace he had established between the parts of his mind that remained endowed with free will and intelligence, and those parts that were overgrown with the tangled vines and waxy stems of that carnivorous flower, Infatuation.

He told himself instead that he merely preferred a cordial and pleasant conversational partner to a dark and surly one.

He’d snapped at Loki the first evening they’d been in the library together after his return, and Loki had refused to engage with him afterwards. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to relent and try to break through Strange’s dour veneer – only a day or two. It was impossible for him to look at Strange and ignore the insistent ache that told him to try and find what was wrong.

All this, despite that Loki was certain Strange was still hiding things from him. All of Loki’s attempts to reconnect with the Seidr had failed while his glamour remained intact. Something was selectively denying him access to his abilities, that much was certain. Since the glamour had remained when Strange had left, it was clearly not a spell that the wizard himself was sustaining. The obvious explanation was that the sashes were responsible for Loki’s powerless state, which Strange would deny… round and round in circles, they went.

Loki found gratitude in the fact that, for whatever reason, his fairer form was not denied to him. With his strength at an all-time low, he had been concerned about his ability to sustain the illusion of his appearance – but it felt as effortless as it ever had, and he scarcely noticed the exertion.

It was instinctual, a magic he could work in his sleep and had done for a millenium. But this had only been possible because Loki was _powerful;_ his attunement to the forces of Aesir magic had always been strong, as much a part of him as the breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins. This was the explanation offered by Frigga after Loki’s confrontation with Odin in the vault: that he had glamoured himself unconsciously from the moment Odin first held him. A defense mechanism of some kind, Frigga had suggested. A likening to one’s caretakers.

_The work of a brood parasite,_ Loki had spat.

After the incident, Loki had dedicated quite some time to ensuring that his glamour would never slip again. It seemed obvious that touching the Casket of Ancient Winters was out of the question. Ultimately, Loki decided that the best way to make sure no one ever saw him like that was to become so proficient with magic that keeping a glamour running would take no effort at all. He would supplant the glamour born of brutish instincts and artless, vulgar magicks with one that he carefully constructed and took pains to perfect.

This went a short way towards explaining why, of everything, _this_ was the spell that he’d retained control of – but something still wasn’t adding up. He had returned from the dead without his glamour, made a single botched attempt at mind reading, and since then his glamour had stayed firmly in place. If the glamour was _back_ , then he should have felt his connection to the Seidr grow _stronger_.

It was difficult to think of something to say to Strange that wouldn’t sound like an accusation (mainly because he would, in fact, be accusing Strange of something). Wary of rushing in, Loki elected for a more indirect approach. That evening he broached the subject of some anachronistic magical construct described ad nauseum in one of the books Strange had recommended to him. Strange had relaxed somewhat, his posture not so tense after a few moments’ discussion. He even apologized when he replied tersely to one of Loki’s questions.

“I’m sorry,” the sorcerer had grumbled, rubbing at his eyes with shaking hands. “You’re not doing anything wrong, I just…”

Loki smiled hesitantly. “Old and tired, are you?”

A laugh had never felt like more of a victory than when Loki drew it out from Strange, no matter how tired and pitiful. With a deep sigh Strange sat back in his chair, rolling his neck and rubbing at his shoulders. He’d been fidgeting all night, never content with his position for more than a few minutes at a time.

For reasons Loki might never fully understand, he took a risk and rose from the table opposite Strange, moved slowly into the space behind him and laid his fingers delicately on his shoulders.

Strange immediately tensed, which rather defeated the purpose, didn’t it? “You know I can’t harm you,” Loki reminded him, glancing at the sashes on his arms.

“Not on purpose.”

“You think I would bring harm to you by accident?”

Whatever Strange was going to say was lost in the low, helpless noise that was wrung out of him by Loki’s hands on his shoulders. He moved his thumbs up either side of the column of Strange’s neck, careful to tug only gently on the fine hairs at his nape.

“Dear me, Strange,” Loki muttered, fingering over the hard spots in the muscles, “do you ever take rest, or do you actually carry the weight of the world with you everywhere you go?”

Strange chuckled weakly, though it was soon lost in a low sound that Loki very deliberately did _not_ think of as a moan. “I’m the Sorcerer Supreme,” Strange managed after a few moments, eyes fallen shut. “I don’t get days off.”

Loki hummed, unwilling to trust himself with words in the face of the sounds the wizard was making. His skin was soft beneath Loki’s fingers, tight over battle-hardened and power-weary muscles. Before long, Strange was putty in his hands, and Loki was full of something prideful and content.

When he had finished working over his beleaguered neck and shoulders, Loki didn’t immediately take his hands off Strange. He didn’t have a good reason – in fact there was a voice in the back of his mind that insisted he unhand the sorcerer with all haste. Instead, Loki found himself stilling his hands at the base of Strange’s neck, pressing gently as he threaded his fingers up and into his soft, dark hair. There was a small gasp at that, and Loki realized that he might be in trouble when he couldn’t be sure whether it was he or Strange that had made the sound.

Fortunately, Loki’s tendency to do things he probably shouldn’t was firmly intact. Far from stopping, he inched forward, closer to the back of Strange’s seat, and dropped his elbows so that he could more thoroughly tangle his fingers in soft, dark strands. Strange sounded half-asleep. “Tha’s… ’s nice,” he mumbled.

_What are you doing?_ a voice hissed in Loki’s mind, but it was soon overgrown and devoured by twisting tendrils of sentiment and want.

“That’s good, Strange,” Loki breathed, guiding careful hands across his scalp, pressing and scratching gently. He let the pads of his fingers graze the shell of Strange’s ear, tucking back an errant strand before returning to run through his hair.

The soft, contented sounds coming from Strange were threatening to undo Loki; by the time he’d realized his mistake, he was already half-hard. This was bad, he thought. What on earth was he doing? And why did he so badly not want to stop?

For better or worse, Strange wound up dozing off in his chair while Loki massaged his scalp. Loki was glad, felt as if he’d accomplished something – but he was left painfully wanting. As the wizard’s breathing grew even and slow, Loki motioned for the Cloak to come near. Sensing his intent, the garment laid itself over Strange’s resting form, snuggling its collar into the space between his neck and shoulder. Loki very deliberately did _not_ spend long moments staring down at Strange’s face, relaxed and clear of worry. He did _not_ allow himself to entertain the fantasy of having put Strange in that state through other, more physical efforts. Loki did _not_ later find release with the image of Strange and the sounds of his pleasure echoing around the garden of his desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, friends!
> 
> Your comments and kudos sustain me (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)


	12. Not on Your Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love languages; as of this writing, I'm enrolled in French and German classes, and I took six years of Spanish during middle- and high school. I do _NOT_ speak, nor have I ever studied, Xhosa, Hindi, Nepali, or Bangal/Bengali. The words and phrases I use from these languages are the result of online research that usually starts with Google translate and ends with food or travel blogs. Today's vocab words are:
> 
> Jādu'ī khānā (pronounced “jah-dwee kah-nah"): literally translates to "magical food" in Nepali
> 
> Boka (written Bōkā, pronounced "boh-kah"): fool, Bengali

Strong, lithe fingers caressed Stephen’s hair, his ears, his shoulders, before travelling lower to his chest and stomach. Sighs of relief and sounds of need were muffled by the still air of the library as warmth suffused Stephen from behind. Loki’s hand trailed across his neck, just a brush of his fingers, but in Stephen’s dream it was enough to send a spark of want rushing lower. Hot breath and soft lips would meet his ear, whispering words of adoration and desire as Stephen’s breath grew short. Sharp teeth and a wicked tongue found the juncture of his neck and shoulder and sucked a bruise there. Stephen had never understood the appeal of being marked this way, until now. He gasped and moaned as much at the idea as the sensation – the pleasant sting of nipping teeth and the dull pressure of a blooming pleasure-mark held his attention as his mind opened itself to the revelation that he very much liked the idea of being marked, of being _claimed,_ by Loki –

The dreams all ended the same way: with visions of their bodies entwined, rocking into one another as the sounds of their pleasure filled the air. Stephen awoke drenched in sweat and painfully aroused each time, unable to deny himself release no matter how many times he told himself he shouldn’t, that this wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t want this… but he did.

He took care _not_ to avoid Loki, or to distance himself overmuch. It had taken Loki’s gentle prying that night in the library for Stephen to realize that his guest had grown sensitive to Strange’s mood, his tone, and it wouldn’t be right for Loki to feel as if he’d done something wrong when the problem laid with Strange alone. He would sit with his discomfort, accept the fact that he might be setting himself up for failure or embarrassment – because the fact of the matter was that, deny it as he might, his “soft spot” for Loki had begun to blossom into full-blown infatuation.

As much as Stephen may have liked the idea of setting aside a day or two to spend in the astral plane, enjoying a marathon of erotic dreams – or, better yet, marathon sex with a passionately willing partner – he was acutely aware that every moment he spent _not_ researching the latest threat to the sanctums was too precious to spare. Master Minoru hadn’t turned up in the days since the meeting in Nepal, and Strange feared the worst.

He met Wong in the master library. He’d been as good as his word, though it had taken him slightly longer than he’d estimated to track down and transport all of the tomes he’d identified as potentially useful. With the sanctums locked down, only senior masters were left with sling rings, and Strange’s mandate of “nobody in, nobody out” meant that Wong had been left to move the books on his own. No mean feat, given that there appeared to be some sixty or seventy volumes and two sizeable stacks of tightly-wound scrolls.

Wong inclined his head as Stephen entered. “Sorcerer Supreme.”

Strange scoffed, gesturing to his care-worn t-shirt and faded jeans. “C’mon, Wong – it’s casual Friday. And since when do you use the title when no one else is around?” He glanced deliberately about the library. “Or do you have someone hiding behind the shelves, here?”

Wong narrowed his eyes. “Now isn’t the time to joke about something like that, Strange.”

Stephen sighed and mumbled an apology, rubbed at his hands; they’d been aching all day. “So,” he said, “what have we got?”

Wong gestured for Strange to sit, and he did. “The sanctums, as you know, were constructed at places of power across the globe,” Wong began, putting a map drawn on soft vellum on the table in front of him. “The lines that connect them are what some refer to as ley lines. In the mystic arts, we’ve long called them ‘dragon lines,’ or ‘dragon tracks,’ instead.”

Strange drew the map closer. It had to be hundreds of years old, but it gave a startlingly accurate depiction of the world’s continents, with fine golden lines crossing land and sea to create a matrix of magic over the planet’s surface.

“The existence of the dragon lines,” Wong continued, “did not go unnoticed by the rest of the world.” He produced two books, one black with faded gold letters embossed on its cover, and the other crudely but neatly bound with hand-cut paper and strong, red twine.

Stephen took the black book. “ _The Old Straight Track_ , by Alfred Watkins,” Stephen read from its cover, checking just inside. “Published in 1920.” The hand-bound volume bore the title _Heilige Linien_ and had a faded red Hydra stamp on the title page.

“Watkins thought the lines were trade routes taken by ancient societies.” Wong’s tone turned derisive. “Never mind the fact that most of the world’s topography makes that unlikely or impossible.”

Strange smirked. “I love it when you get petty,” he said, leaning back.

Wong ignored him. “And,” he went on, “while Johann Schmidt was spearheading Hydra, the dragon lines were one of the power sources they thought to exploit.”

“Hitler did always love his mysticism,” Stephen observed.

Wong worked to get Stephen up to speed, giving a series of brief history lessons and explaining that the visions he’d reported from his scry had offered insight into mysteries that had defied explanation by other masters for centuries. Over the next few hours, they worked on translating and comparing notes in preparation for examining the denser sources Wong had gathered.

“This,” Wong said, extending to Stephen a book bound in faded red calfskin, “is what I think we’re dealing with.”

Strange took the book from Wong, reading with disdain, “ _A Chronicle of the Life and Times of His Most Terrible Excellency, Fin Fang Foom_?” He sent Wong a dubious look. “Who thinks up these names?”

The crooked smile on Wong’s face unnerved Stephen. “Would you prefer his formal title?”

Strange opened the next book he was given and flipped to an early page, saying with unmasked incredulity, “ _He Whose Limbs Shatter Mountains and Whose Back Scrapes the Sun_? Jesus…” He paused, then asked, “Why would they write books? If the Makluan came to Earth with the intention of eventually conquering it, it seems like publishing the biography of their leader – this ‘Fin Fang Foom’ – would needlessly risk their discovery.”

“Asking the right questions at last,” Wong congratulated him drily. He produced a vial from an interior pocket of his robes and let it slide across the table to Strange. It was filled with a greenish fluid flecked with gold particles that caught the warm lamplight of the library.

“That,” Wong declared, “is the only way to read this book.”

Stephen held the vial up to the light, watching as the liquid swirled. It was slightly viscous, sticking to the sides of the vial before gradually running back down. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, waiting for more.“Are you familiar with the concept of _jādu'ī khānā_?” Wong asked.

Stephen set the vial on the table. “I can’t say that I am, and my Nepali is rusty.”

Wong gave a long-suffering sigh, looking around until he found yet another book to put in front of Stephen. This one, he knew: _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland._

Strange cocked an eyebrow as Wong explained, “The art of magical gastronomy is an old one. What we eat and where it comes from has always been important, but there are some kinds of magic that can only work if the caster or the object imbibes something mystically charged.”

At long last, Wong took a seat across from Stephen at the table. “That,” he said, pointing at the vial, “is the only known sample of what we think is this book’s _jādu'ī khānā_.”

“What is it?” Strange asked.

Wong shrugged. “We don’t know,” he said simply. “It’s never been opened, and no one has dared to try. It was recovered from what we now think was a Makluan who tried to infiltrate the London sanctum. He was posing as a master, had trained at Kamar-Taj and was caught as he tried to steal this book from the London library. After that, it and the rest of the books on the Maklua and Fin Fang Foom were moved to the archives in Nepal.”

Curious, Strange opened the book, finding what seemed to his eye a chaotic jumble of symbols, shapes, and a complex script written in no language Strange had ever seen. “I’m guessing we’ve already tried to crack this?”

Wong looked unimpressed. “No, Stephen: the combined knowledge and wisdom of hundreds of masters never once produced that idea.”

Stephen winced dramatically. “Yikes – who put the bee in your bonnet today, Wong? You’re all over the map with the commentary.”

A sigh and something mumbled in Nepali preceded Wong’s response. “I’m deeply troubled by what’s been happening in Hong Kong,” he confessed. “The sanctum is without its master. The Maklua are powerful in ways we don’t know, can take a human form and practice the mystic arts. If only one of them has ever been caught, I have to wonder how many more might be lurking in our ranks.”

Strange opened his mouth but quickly closed it again, eyes widening as it hit him. “How high up do you suppose one of them could get before we found them out?”

Wong’s expression was stern. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” He waited a beat before prompting, “What do you think?”

Strange shook his head, steepling his hands and bringing his fingertips to his forehead. “I don’t know what to think, right now,” he admitted. “I need some time to mull it over.”

“What you need is rest,” Wong corrected him, gathering up the books that were now strewn haphazardly on the table before organizing them into stacks. “You haven’t been sleeping. I can tell.”

Strange sighed. “Of course, you can.” How could he hope to get a good night’s sleep with Hong Kong in so precarious a position? He had a responsibility to help ensure the safety of the entire planet, sure – but if something were to happen during another assault on the Hong Kong sanctum, if someone died… that would be on him.

He didn’t realize that he had begun staring into space until Wong waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Take a nap,” he ordered. “Go for your walk this evening, clear your head.”

Stephen’s eyebrows very nearly made the acquaintance of his hairline. “I’m sorry, are you _endorsing_ my spending time with Loki Odinson?”

Wong pursed his lips as he went on sorting books. “I still don’t like him staying here.”

Strange inclined his head. “But?”

Wong nodded thoughtfully. “He helps in the kitchen. Makes a mean curry vindaloo, I’ll give him that.”

Stephen spread his arms in plaintive indignation. “And neither of you has ever thought to invite me?”

Wong was smiling – _actually_ smiling. “Perhaps if you found time between shouldering the weight of the universe and getting lost in your own head, you would join us sometime.”

Stephen was still grappling with the image of Wong and Loki together in a kitchen when Wong pat his shoulder as he made for the door. Stephen checked his watch and saw for the thousandth time that it was still broken, instead looking out the window to gauge the daylight. Three, maybe four in the afternoon – some time yet before dinner. A gurgle in his stomach reminded him that he’d skipped lunch. Perhaps he’d put in an appearance, after all.

~*~

“You will say nothing to Thor of this.”

The married scents of turmeric and coriander had met Strange’s nose as he’d sat in his study, and he had been powerless to resist their call. Now that he’d made it downstairs, he also caught the musk of cabbage and hot peppers roasting off in an oven, and the vaguely creamy aroma of coconut milk cooking into a pot of rice.

Loki was wearing a half apron, tied in a bow behind his hips. Stephen knew because it was the first thing he’d seen as he’d sauntered into the kitchen that evening. That, and the way Loki’s linen pants hugged the curve of his –

Stephen pointedly abandoned that observation, brows knit together over a bemused smile. “Why? Because you’ve learned to cook?”

Loki stopped short of closing the space between them, rocking back on the ball of his foot as he lowered his voice. “I will not have that _oaf_ mock me for demeaning myself by inhabiting the role of a… a _scullery maid_.”

Despite himself Stephen felt his expression shift towards passing disapproval. “Feeding yourself isn’t beneath you,” he asserted, “even if you once thought it was.” He watched Loki’s throat move as he swallowed, eyes wide. Strange continued, “I’m not going to belabor the point, since you’ve clearly got a good thing going here – it’s not often that Wong compliments cooking that isn’t his own.”

At that, Loki quirked an eyebrow and looked past Strange to Wong, who had faltered in his work with a cutting board for only a moment. “Is that so?” Loki drawled.

Wong turned and pointed at Loki with his knife. “You still have a long way to go, _boka_. Don’t let it go to your head.” He glared at Stephen. “They’ll be no living with him, now,” he grumbled, renewing his assault on the pile of carrots on the cutting board.

Strange resisted making comments about the two of them getting along, especially given Wong’s initial (and apparently persistent) trepidation about Loki’s presence in the sanctum. They weren’t chummy, didn’t make small talk or try to fill the silence that was broken only by the sound of forks meeting plates, but they were sharing space and sharing food and that was something, wasn’t it?

Stephen only lamented that it had taken him this long to discover that this had been going on. He felt a pang at the thought of having missed what was obviously an important development for Loki. This was supplanted by the private, unexpected thrill he got when Loki casually called Stephen by his first name when asking that he pass the salt.

They began to chat when Strange asked after Loki’s progress through the mystical etymology texts. Loki described in detail some of what he thought were the more interesting aspects of magical honorific and superlative theory, supplementing the discussion with insights of his own. So engrossed did Strange become in the conversation that he entirely failed to notice that Wong had left the table and the sun had begun to set.

“ _Boka_ ,” Wong barked from the kitchen. The speed with which Loki’s head turned at the insult had Strange privately in stitches. That Wong was able to get an erstwhile prince of Asgard to reply to the name of “fool” was a magic all its own.

Realizing that he was being observed, Loki turned his eyes back to Stephen, looking guarded. “You don’t happen to speak Bengali, do you, Strange?” he asked casually.

_Oh, this was too good_. Strange had to try very hard to keep the humor from his voice. “It’s not one I’ve ever taken the time to –”

Loki rose from his seat as he rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Stephen,” he declared, making for the kitchen, where Wong sounded as if he was in the process of cursing every dish in the sink.

The words landed on Stephen like a physical blow as Loki swept out of the room. A weight like stones in his stomach nearly doubled Stephen over, and his fingers began to twitch. He tried to quell the sickening rush of nerves that threatened the safety of the food he’d just eaten. _A terrible liar…_ could he mean –

_No,_ Stephen told himself firmly. The way he had said it was much too casual, almost flippant. If he was trying to tell Strange that he’d discovered the deception about his glamour, he wouldn’t have done it in that tone. He would be angry, maybe say something cruel, or at the very least hit Stephen with a nasty look.

The stones in Stephen’s stomach tumbled over themselves when he understood that the only reason he was certain that Loki had been joking was that, if he was truly trying to confront Strange about the lies he’d been telling, he would have sounded much more _hurt_. He imagined what that might have sounded like, to have only the second time Loki ever called him “Stephen” tainted by anger and pain.

And that was the last straw.

Strange was dizzy with the suddenness of his realization. Maybe it was the emotional gauntlet he’d been running for the last few weeks, capped off with the sudden, jarring twist of delight at Loki’s growing familiarity with Wong and himself and the steeply-pitched terror at the thought that Loki had found him out.

He was coming clean. Not tomorrow, not next week: tonight.

Loki deserved the truth, even if it meant growing to hate Stephen. He might want to leave the sanctum, might cut ties with Stephen altogether – and he could. There was nothing keeping Loki here; it had been clear from the beginning that he was free to leave any time.

But that wasn’t quite true, was it? Sure, he could show up in New Asgard, have a place to live – but that’s all he’d be doing: living. Not _thriving_ , as he was here. His mind was beautiful at work, inquisitive and open and so very sharp. Losing that – losing Loki’s company, his curiosity, would be…

Stephen got to his feet and made for his quarters. The Cloak met him in the hall past the dining room. He wanted to ignore it, because doing so would let him deny that he was emotionally wound up enough to have alerted his relic. Instead he let it settle over his worn t-shirt and accepted that he would look ridiculous on the way to his rooms. The Cloak held him only somewhat more snugly than was usual, and Stephen let it comfort him. He’d take all the support he could get.

This stood to be the worst weekend Stephen had had in quite a long while.

~*~

Wong was enigmatic and aloof in a way that Loki had at first disliked, until he’d realized that it was all in the service of self-preservation. With this practice Loki was intimately familiar, and from there it had really only been a matter of time before he’d found the chinks in Wong’s armor.

He didn’t cook every night, not at first – but as the weeks had gone by he and Strange both had been spending more and more time in New York. Loki was given to understand that this was somewhat abnormal but had assumed it was due, at least in part, to him. This was one of the reasons he had elected – for the most part – to stay well within the boundaries they had established: the fewer reasons they had to suspect him of something, the less disruptive his presence would be, and the more likely it was that he could get far enough into the sorcerers’ good graces for Strange to finally, _finally_ end whatever game he’d been playing with Loki’s magic.

Loki hadn’t once wanted for food or drink since he’d been in the sanctum; it always seemed to just _be_ there whenever he happened to feel hungry or thirsty. Sometimes he would sit, reading in his room, only to realize with a start that something smelled delicious and that there was a plate of it over on the vanity. If he spent all day in the library, a warm, heady spice would usually draw him out to a side table in the hall. Convenient though this arrangement was, Loki had always been the curious type, and he’d begun to feel somewhat… guilty.

It was odd: he couldn’t recall ever feeling guilty for being given the things he needed or having his comfort provided for. During the months he’d stayed at the sanctum, though, he’d come to have a more intimate relationship with his surroundings and the small number of people in it. All his life Loki had adored light and sound, music and good drink and the trappings of luxury, the feeling of power that came with a certain level of status. But here?

It was no dusty monastery or ascetic temple, but compared to the places Loki had been – invited or not – for the past millennium of his life, his present accommodations were downright austere. But the carpets were soft, the lights were warm, there were books and beautiful places to go, when he took walks with Stephen–

_Strange_. Stephen _Strange_. That was his name. _Strange_.

When had he begun to think of him as _Stephen?_

Loki’s lip curled at the coquettishness of that thought. He knew damn well _when:_ since before the night in the library, since he’d taken to pleasing himself with the man’s name on his tongue, trapped just behind his teeth. He had a reasonable expectation of privacy, but Loki was too well-versed in affairs of magic to forget that the utterance of a name contains power. It wouldn’t do for him to draw Steph – _Strange’s_ , attention, while seeking his pleasure, much as that thought may have fueled one or more of his late-night fantasies.

Loki was far from puritanical, but there was still a certain amount of guilt that came with these imaginings. Strange was _helping_ him. He didn’t _have_ to let Loki stay – he could ship him off to New Asgard any time, and it would be rude to repay his kindness with unwanted romantic overtures. And while he might entertain the vain hope that Strange would feel something – anything – for him, Loki felt quite certain Wong would appreciate his advances even less.

Instead, he had taken pains to make himself visible and available around the times he knew Wong usually began to work. Wong was initially apprehensive, only casting suspicious glances Loki’s way. Eventually, though, he had ducked his head out from the kitchen door and said something cutting to the effect of, if he was just going to sit around, he could at least make himself useful. With no other prompting and a secret smile, Loki had followed.

Wong was harsh, demanding – rather like Odin had been, in a way. Unlike his adoptive father, however, Wong offered praise – scant though it was – and encouragement when it was needed. His gruff instructions and sharp commands were easy to follow, and there wasn’t much in the way of idle chatter – they worked, and then they ate. It was simple, and before long Loki was surprised to find that he rather enjoyed it. It was tactile, active, and there was something to show for it all in the end – something to be proud of. Wong had gradually begun to offer scraps of advice and more complicated instruction, entrusting him with more than simply scrubbing potatoes and chopping onions (though he’d had much to say after watching Loki hack away at one for the first time).

Strange had never joined them before, and his appearance was jarring even as something happy and excited had fluttered around in Loki’s stomach at the idea of feeding him. He’d done his best to deflect, falling back into a comfortable pattern of trying to save face to hide these feelings. He had very much _not_ been prepared for the lust-adjacent thrill that had run through him at Stephen’s admonishment: “Feeding yourself isn’t beneath you.”

_You’re absolutely right,_ he would imagine himself saying later, when he was safely in bed. _Forgive me. How can I make it up to…_ No, that wasn’t right. _Well, I can think of_ another _thing I’d like to have beneath me_. Hmm, no – too forward…

He’d abandoned this line of thinking for survival purposes. Fantasies were for the bedroom, and there would be plenty of time to think more on this when he wasn’t at risk of developing an erection in front of his hosts.

It wasn’t until later, after a shower and fresh clothes had removed all but the faintest traces of saffron and turmeric from his hands, that Loki realized he had called Strange by his first name not once, but twice in an evening. He grinned like a fool when he caught his own eye in the mirror. _Stupid,_ he chastised himself, but the grin didn’t falter. He couldn’t help but feel as if this was A Development, that he’d said _Stephen_ and hadn’t been corrected. It was… intimate. Friendly.

Nothing would ever come of this, of course. Strange had made it clear from the off that he wasn’t likely to extend his confidence to Loki, not fully – if not with his critical looks then with his lies. But that was alright, Loki told himself. Things were progressing nicely. And once his power was restored to him… Perhaps, when they were equals, Strange might reconsider the distance at which he was keeping Loki.

~*~

Their sojourn that evening was to take place in what Loki guessed was an otherwise public botanical garden. Like all of their outings, this one was made in the mirror dimension – for everyone’s protection, Strange had said. Loki had garnered enough notoriety during his visits to Earth that his face would have been instantly recognizable to most people. Strange had left it at that.

They passed over a walking bridge that arched over a gently flowing stream. On one side stretched out the length of the garden, stone and wrought-iron accents nestled among riotous blooms of color and hemmed in by manicured topiaries. On the other side was an artificial waterfall, wide enough to frame both men as they walked over the bridge, their reflections wavering in the quietly rushing water.

Strange stopped, settled his hands on the bridge’s rail and looked down at the stream. “How are you feeling?”

Loki startled minutely the question. “Not much different than the first time you asked, about ten minutes ago.”

Strange shut his eyes, shook his head. “Right, sorry. My mind is…”

“Elsewhere?” Loki prompted. Strange smiled, but there was no mirth in it. Loki felt a familiar tug in his chest, frowned at it. “Is something the matter?”

Strange’s fingers drummed on the wood. “No, no,” he sighed, “I just… there’s something I have to tell you.”

Loki did his best to school his expression into something open and receptive. “Alright, then,” he said gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Strange laughed – that terrible, sad laugh – and ran a shaking hand through his hair, and Loki _watched_ as he turned from “Strange” into “Stephen.” He looked vulnerable, open. His eyes were unsure as they sought out Loki’s and he snagged the corner of his bottom lip on a tooth, worrying away at it such that Loki thought it might bleed. He suppressed the urge to reach out and pass his thumb over the spot.

Strange breathed deeply before muttering, “Okay, here goes.” He faced Loki, squaring his shoulders and holding his gaze with eyes that said he was ready for the worst. “I haven’t been… completely honest with you, and I’d like to apologize.”

Loki’s breath caught in his throat, but he did his level best not to let it show. This was it: he just knew it. He kept his face open, unguarded, as he nodded for Stephen to go on.

Scarred, mottled fingers gripped the railing. “Having you at the sanctum is… it’s been…” Stephen trailed off, then softly cursed.

A pit of doubt yawned wide in Loki’s stomach as he frantically searched his companion’s face. “Are you asking me to leave?”

“What? No!” Stormy eyes were hard beneath Stephen’s incredulous frown. He looked almost scandalized, staring at Loki in disbelief. Loki liked that.

“No, of course not,” Stephen went on, “that’s the opposite of what I want… wanted to say to you.”

Loki frowned. “So, you wish for me to stay… have I done something wrong, then?”

Strange shook his head, eyes downcast. “No, no, you’ve been perfect – done a perfectly good job, I mean. Of staying out of trouble.”

Loki had never seen him so flustered. He leaned ever so slightly to the side, exhilarated by the warmth that met the gentle nudge his shoulder imparted to Strange’s. “Out with it, man,” Loki said, as lightly as he could manage.

There was a long, tense pause, then: “It’s about your magic. Or, rather, the lack thereof.”

Loki’s shoulders fell with his sigh. _Finally._ “I was wondering when you would own up to it.”

Strange’s eyes snapped to Loki’s face. “To what, exactly?”

Shrugging, Loki said, “Your spell. It felt a little like an insult that you seemed to think I wouldn’t understand what you were up to, once I realized you _were_ telling the truth about the sashes.” The gold and green bands rippled pleasantly as he flexed his forearms, and Loki smiled as he caught Stephen following the motion.

Loki went on: “It didn’t make much sense that I could access only enough energy from the Seidr to maintain a glamour – it’s never worked like that.” He looked at Strange skeptically. “I’m not sure whether to be irritated or impressed that ‘your,’ inhibited version feels so close to normal.”

Stephen’s eyes were flitting across Loki’s face, searching for something – but what it was, Loki had no idea. “You seemed so convinced it was the sashes that were holding you back,” Strange mused.

Loki smirked. “That was before I understood just how skilled a sorcerer you are.”

That brought a smile to Stephen’s face, tight though it was. “Not so ‘second-rate’ after all, hm?”

Loki smiled easily. “Apparently not.”

As if a great weight had been lifted from them, Stephen’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned onto his elbows to rest against the bridge’s railing. “I should have told you from the beginning,” he said, not quite miserably but getting there. “I’m so, so sorry.”

It was endearing, in a way, that Stephen didn’t seem to think that Loki was prepared to forgive him everything, now that his magic was to be restored. Overcome with the desire to comfort him, Loki reached out and laid his palm between Stephen’s shoulders. His touch was met at first with tension, but soon Stephen relaxed beneath his hand. To Loki’s great delight, he could _feel_ the magic on Stephen, like a low, constant hum that he could sense but not hear. The sensation was invigorating, exciting. Soon, Loki knew, he would feel that way, too.

“I want to help make this right,” Strange said, straightening. Loki grudgingly let his hand fall away. “And I promise you, I’ll do whatever I can to help fix this.”

Loki scoffed. “I should hope so.” The spell couldn’t be _that_ hard to break, could it?

“I mean it,” Strange said, eyes bright and earnest as he settled a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “We can work together, find a solution.”

Loki blinked rapidly. “A solution?” He laughed, a little confused. “What solution is there? You simply need to lift your spell.”

Strange’s face froze, and his grip on Loki’s shoulder tightened. “Is that… truly what you want?”

Loki frowned. “Well, of course it is. Now that it’s out here in the open, I thought…” Doubt began to nag at him. He searched Stephen’s face for answers but saw only his own confusion reflected. “You _will_ lift the spell, won’t you? Let me have my magic back? I’ve done everything you’ve asked, followed all of your rules.” He cocked his head. “Why would you reveal yourself and then deny me this?”

The hush of the water falling into the stream, the whisper of a breeze that carried with it the sweetness lilac and honeysuckle, the blinking lights of fireflies dancing over the river, seemed all to fade away as Stephen’s expression moved from confusion into surprise, and from there into… Loki hesitated to say _despair_ , but _sadness_ didn’t quite cover it. Strange was looking at him like he’d come to deliver some terrible portent from the future.

In a way, Loki would later suppose, he had.

“Loki,” Stephen said softly, sadly, and with a look so piteous it sent a wave of dread rippling down Loki's spine. “Your magic is gone.”

One moment stretched into two, then three, and past that Loki lost the ability to count. After some time, he shook himself with a short, breathless laugh. “Yes,” he said, somewhat clipped, “but you are going to return it to me, are you not? You will lift the spell that’s suppressing my bond with the Seidr.”

Strange’s head moved slowly from side to side, and his hand fell from Loki’s shoulder.

“I –” Strange rasped, cleared his throat, “I don’t know why, but when you woke up, your locus of insight – your ability to read minds – worked on Tony, but since then…” He shook his head again. “I’ve checked during every exam,” he explained, “but there’s nothing.”

A seething heat was squirming in Loki’s chest, twisting his insides, hollowing him out. He stepped back, away from the weight of Strange’s pity. “You’re lying,” he swore.

Strange gestured helplessly, eyes soft. “Loki, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Loki spat, turned and put a few paces between them. “No, I don’t want your apologies, and I don’t want your _pity_. Just…” His stomach sank as he caught his reflection in the water below: pale, flawless skin, dark hair, sharp eyes. “Then, my glamour, it’s –”

Strange’s eyes didn’t meet Loki’s. _Coward_. “I’ve been maintaining it.”

Loki rounded on Strange like a feral thing. “What? _Why?_ ” he demanded. “Why would you do that?”

“You hated the way you looked so much,” Stephen said, beseeching. “It was painful to watch, I… I _care_ about you, okay?” Strange began to move, but Loki met each of his paces with one of his own, backing away.

“Oh, well, if you _care_ about me, I suppose all is to be forgiven, then?” Loki said flippantly, turning away from Strange and raking a hand through his hair.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at yourself in the mirror each morning and hating what you saw. I was trying to…”

Something clicked, then snapped, inside of Loki’s mind. 

“To protect me?” he said, voice hollow.

**_You’re my son. I wanted only to protect you from the truth._ **

He turned slowly, so slowly. “Oh,” Loki said, voice down just above a whisper. “Oh, I see.”

Strange reached for him again. “Loki, I really am –”

Loki’s voice was low and cool and stopped Strange where he stood. “You’re what, Stephen? Are you sorry? Why don’t you say it again, and perhaps this time, it’ll mean something?” He knew he was being cruel, but this…

Everything he _was_ , everything he’d ever _liked_ about himself – his magic, his _power_ , the beauty _he_ had created – it was all gone, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“It was wrong,” Strange said, hands on his chest. “ _I_ was wrong. I should never have lied to you.”

“No, no you shouldn’t have.” Loki felt his anger swell and couldn’t keep the venom out of his voice as he said with a manic, grating laugh, “I suppose I really _am_ as ugly as I’ve always thought.” His smile was so sharp it hurt. “How nice to know that my natural form provokes disgust in everyone, regardless of their foreknowledge of the Jotnar.”

A heat entered Strange’s voice as he said vehemently, “Loki, that’s not it at all.”

Loki didn’t care, and he didn’t stop. “Then why keep a glamour over me? Why not leave me…?” His voice was becoming thick, and he couldn’t have that. He doubled down, stoked his anger. “Why not leave me as I was?”

“I couldn’t leave you mired in self-loathing – it…” To Loki’s spiteful satisfaction, Strange began to sound guilty. “…It hurt too much.”

Loki felt his face twist and his hands begin to shake. “Well, I’m glad at least one of us benefited from your lies,” he ground out. “As long as _your_ feelings were spared, I suppose that makes all the difference.” Loki gave in to the nasty feeling in his chest and leered at Strange, whose wrecked, despondent expression was very nearly enough to change Loki’s mind – to make him want to accept the apology, reconcile, go back to being… whatever they were. At the same time, the pain he saw in the face of his deceiver fed something rabid and cruel inside of him, something that bayed for Strange’s blood.

He knew he couldn’t go far in the mirror dimension, but all Loki could think was that he needed to get _away_. As he began to retreat, he felt a hand grip his wrist. He was preparing to wrest himself away from it when Strange’s grip tightened in time with a pained gasp and the whisper of a quick-moving blade. Twisting, Loki caught Stephen’s weight as his legs gave out from under him, slowing but unable to stop his descent to the ground.

Loki felt his eyes widen, and when he spoke, he almost didn’t recognize his own voice for the terror in it. “Strange? Strange, what’s the matter?”

Instead of answering, Stephen held on to Loki desperately by his forearms. His face had gone pale, eyes wide. In his frantic searching of Strange’s form for the cause of his distress, Loki noticed a cut across his cheek, shallow and bleeding only a little. Loki watched as a web of sickly, purplish lines began to creep outward, with the wound at its epicenter. Blood vessels were bursting in Strange’s eyes and his fingers clutched desperately at Loki’s arms. The green and gold sashes fell away, unraveling and falling to the bridge’s surface in two elegant heaps, joined shortly thereafter by Strange himself. As he fell unconscious, so too did the glamour begin to fall.

Loki watched, helpless and horrified, as his nightmares were made manifest. His fingernails turned blunt and frostbite-black, and the slow march of icy blue skin crept up his arms as the glamour failed, its caster incapacitated. Through the spokes of the bridge’s wooden railing Loki caught his reflection in the water, and the moonlight let him see that his eyes had gone a dark, sinister red.

So distracted was he by the horror of his changing appearance that Loki very nearly fell victim to the same threat that had put Strange on the ground. The sound of a blade whistling through the air was one with which Loki was intimately familiar; an adjustment of a few degrees was enough to move his head out of the way. This pulled Loki back to reality, to the threat – the clear and present danger of the masked and hooded figure that was sprinting towards him.

Loki’s hands flew out with a guttural cry before he knew what he was doing. He felt the air around him cool in an instant as frost spread rapidly over the wooden planks beneath his knees. A ray of cold air surged forth from his palms, slowing the assailant as they made for the bridge. They pressed forth with a determination that Loki might have admired, were it not for the fact that Strange seemed to be dying and his entire self-concept had just been shattered.

The cold didn’t stop until the attacker was frozen solid mid-stride. Loki was left panting, gazing at his hands as they trembled, crusted in ice whose cold he didn’t feel. Interestingly, his senses seemed to have been heightened; he heard and felt the presence of the remaining two assailants with startling clarity. One of them was attempting to rush Loki from behind, while the other – concealed up to now behind the waterfall – leapt forward, flicking a set of throwing knives in the direction of Loki’s chest. He raised one arm to shield himself, knowing it wouldn’t be enough… but as he completed the gesture, a solid wall of ice shot up out of the river, catching the blades before they could reach him. A sound of surprise was followed by a dull _thump_ and the sloppy _splash_ of a body meeting water.

The enemy at his back lodged one of their short blades in Loki shoulder. It stung desperately, a bright, teeth-clenching pain, but he didn’t react as Strange had. No sooner had he cried out than the pain began to ebb, to numb. He rounded on the final assailant as he pulled out and tossed aside the offending weapon. Another thrust of his arms produced a cone of hail that he sent into his attacker. Jagged chunks of ice tore into leather, cloth and flesh alike. The figure was hobbled, sent tumbling to the hard dirt of the garden’s path. Without conscious thought Loki directed another attack to the third assailant – the one that had fallen into the river but that was presently climbing Loki’s ice wall with startling speed, using a pair of daggers like ice picks. They braced their feet against the wall and sprang backwards, landing on the bridge just a few feet away from Loki.

He blocked their hasty lunge, stepping aside and using their momentum to put them off balance. Mindful of Strange’s motionless body, Loki lured his opponent away from the bridge, turning as if to flee. With a frustrated noise they hurled another knife at Loki’s back – a knife that he dodged, tumbling to the ground and rolling to the lifeless, tattered body of the one he had killed with bludgeoning hail. He caught the glint of a blade at the corpse's ankle, drew it from its sheath, and righted himself in time to throw the dagger at the last one standing. It sank into their chest with a dull, wet noise, and they fell.

Somewhere in Loki’s mind was the thought that he probably shouldn’t feel so good about having just killed three people, but it was drowned out by the symphony of adrenaline and confusion and fear that held his entire attention. He knelt, breathing heavily for a few moments before his eyes came back into focus and he remembered that Strange was quite possibly dead only a few feet away.

Scrabbling on his hands and knees, Loki lunged back to the bridge, skidding on his shins as he made it back to where the sorcerer lay. “Strange, _Strange,_ ” he called, shaking the man’s shoulder. He was about to use his other hand to help him get a look at the sorcerer’s face when he realized that his palms were still coated in a coarse layer of frost. He swore, clapping them together and brushing off the crystals that fell like a cloud of pulverized diamond. Cupping his head as gently as he could, Loki drew up Stephen’s face for closer inspection.

A spider’s web of virulent purple marks had spread across his left cheek and up to his forehead, curling around but not touching his eye. Loki held his ear to Strange’s mouth and felt something that might have qualified as relief when a weak puff of warm air came through. Presently, though, it was drowned out by the din of racing thoughts and a thousand questions. Weren’t sorcerers the only ones who could access the mirror dimension? If so, then that would mean that there were traitors among the masters’ ranks. Had Strange known about this? Why hadn't he told Loki?

Loki’s heart grew bitter even as he cradled Strange’s unconscious form more closely. Yet more secrets. Further proof of just how little his trust extended. Loki wished that didn’t hurt as much as it did, because he trusted Strange. He realized with something of a jolt just how deeply that trust went and wondered if these were the terms upon which their… relationship was to end. Would Strange die not knowing how much Loki trusted him? How much he cared for him?

Loki’s reddened eyes stung traitorously as he looked down at Stephen’s marred, sickly face. Would it have mattered to him? Would knowing how much he mattered to Loki change anything between them? Something cold and hard inside him said “no,” but before he could let that thought permeate he was put immediately on edge as three orange, sparking portals appeared before him.

Wong and two masters Loki didn’t know emerged, taking in the scene: three dead, and their Sorcerer Supreme unconscious in the arms of a monster. A tall, olive-skinned sorcerer held a mean-looking bow staff at the ready, prepared to strike. Loki felt himself curl involuntarily around Strange as he laid in his lap, winding his fingers into Stephen’s dark hair as he cradled his head to his chest. The second unknown master held taut a bow whose string and arrow were made of orange light. Raising a hand to hold them back, Wong rushed forward.

“Are you alright?” he said, joining Loki on the bridge.

Loki wasn’t sure what he had expected from Wong – violence, maybe a visceral expression of disgust – but it wasn’t that. His mouth worked uselessly for a moment before the words came to him. “I – I don’t know what happened,” he stumbled, “one minute we were talking, and the next…”

Wong peered at Stephen’s slack, pallid face, the purple marks crawling across it and the shallow movement of his chest. “We need to get him to the sanctum,” he said, moving to take Strange from Loki’s arms.

Before he knew what he was doing Loki was on his feet, not quite clutching Stephen to his chest. “I can carry him,” he said quietly.

Wong looked ready to object but didn’t, peering up at Loki. It seemed as though he was somewhat taller in this form, as well. He’d never noticed. “Right – follow me,” Wong said, making for the portal he’d come through. At his signal the other two masters lowered their weapons but stopped short of stowing them away, eyes trained on Loki.

He would have plenty of time to wallow in self-conscious misery later; for now, helping to move Strange seemed like the least he could do.

Somehow, this all felt like it was Loki’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo, boy! This was much more of an undertaking to write than I thought it would be, but after a solid two weeks of brainstorming, editing, writing and re-writing, I'd say I feel pretty good about it __〆(。。)
> 
> In case you didn’t know: Fin Fang Foom and the Makluan are recurring villains I lifted from the comics! I did a lot of research on ley lines and related mysticism, too - which is where the book by Alfred Watkins and _Heilige Linien_ came from.
> 
> Comments and kudos help keep me motivated to go on with the story, so if you're enjoying it so far you know what to do! Thank you so much for sticking with me!  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	13. Spellbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem referenced is Spellbound, by Emily Brontë

One of the many reading dens in the sanctum was converted into a sick room of necessity. Strange was laid out on a chaise, atop a blanket woven in shades of blue and brown. Two tall, rectangular windows framed the scene from the far wall, their heavy red drapes a stark counterpoint to the driving rain outside. Bookcases loomed on either side of the room, recessed into the walls and interspersed at intervals with hanging portraits and painted landscapes. Between the windows hung a painting of a frigate on a tempestuous sea, which seemed only appropriate, to Loki. Even if rain hadn’t been crashing against the windows, it would be difficult to think of the night’s events as anything other than a shipwreck. 

Wong’s mouth was pressed into a tight line when he wasn’t using it to issue orders to the masters that had accompanied him into the mirror dimension. Apparently there had been some sort of revelation about a series of attacks against another sanctum, in Hong Kong – something about spies in their ranks, shapeshifters, and among them a woman with the surname Minoru. Loki gleaned what he could as he lurked in the dimmest corner of the room, watching Strange as he writhed weakly on the chaise.

There was no reason for Loki to feel as though he was at fault here, but it sure as Hel felt like he was. He hadn’t sensed their attackers as they’d lain in wait, and it had nearly gotten Strange killed. _It might yet,_ a dark voice muttered at the edge of his mind. Even if his guilt _was_ misplaced, his magic was gone, he could do nothing to ease Strange’s suffering, and he was trapped in this wretched, shameful skin. He hadn’t missed the looks the other masters had given him – suspicious and openly disgusted – and he could hardly blame them, could he? Lurid red eyes, dull blue skin covered in ugly, sweeping scars – all of Asgard had long thought the Jotnar were the stuff of nightmares. Turns out they’d been right.

Suddenly, a spark-spitting portal opened near the room’s entrance. Through it stepped one of the masters from before and a woman Loki didn’t recognize. She was tall and slender, with dark hair pulled into a multitude of tightly braided stands. The wore a high-collared orange tunic that parted at the top of her ribs, revealing a gown in shades of black and silver that hung down to her calves. In each of her hands she gripped a large silver suitcase, which she set down next to the place where Strange laid in the moments it took her to cross the room.

“Stephen, no,” she groaned, falling to one knee beside him. She began to look him over, checking his pulse, listening to his breathing.

Recognition flickered in Strange’s eyes, a cold sweat lending his face a sickly sheen. “Shuri,” he croaked, reaching for her with a violently shaking hand before his arm collapsed weakly across his waist.

The woman – evidently Shuri – gingerly traced her fingers over some of the purple lines that had gone on to cover the better part of the left half of Strange’s face. The woman reached behind her and opened one of her cases with a tap at the beaded bracelet on her wrist. “Stay with us, Stephen, come on,” she pleaded. Strange only groaned by way of reply. From one of her cases Shuri pulled out what appeared to Loki to be a small baton, but seconds later she bit the cap off one end before plunging its hidden needle into Strange’s neck.

Instantly Strange went rigid, eyes flying open as the tendons in his neck strained against his skin. Loki was stepping forward before he knew quite what he was doing, unable to look away as Strange made guttural sounds of pain. Before he could get too close, however, the master that had accompanied Shuri stepped forward, a hand on his staff and sharp, dark eyes glaring dangerously at Loki.

“Come any closer to him, creature, and I swear I’ll –”

“You’ll do nothing,” Wong hissed, advancing on the suddenly wary master and gripping him by his robe. “This man,” he said, pointing at Loki, “is the only reason the Sorcerer Supreme yet lives. I will not tolerate such rudeness, not in _my_ sanctum, Master Cormac. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Loki was stricken dumb, mouth fallen slightly open. The aggressive master cast his eyes between Wong, Strange and Loki before nodding curtly and lowering his gaze. “You have, master,” he said. “Forgive my impudence.”

Wong was quite frightening, when he wanted to be, Loki mused. “It’s not me you should apologize to,” he said darkly. Cormac didn’t meet Loki’s eyes as he mumbled his half-hearted apology, but Loki didn’t care. He hardly cared to notice that Wong had just come to his defense, a milestone though it was. Loki only had eyes for Stephen, whose breathing had begun to even out as his muscles relaxed.

Voluntarily oblivious to the noise around her, Shuri was speaking in low tones with Strange, who seemed to have reclaimed some clarity of thought. “I don’t know,” he was saying, “neurotoxic, I think – hurts like hell, can’t move my arms or legs –”

Shuri plucked one of the smooth, dark beads from her bracelet. Loki watched with fascination as the remaining beads shifted to account for the loss, settling back against her wrist without a sound. “Any cognitive impairment?” she asked as she passed the bead over Strange’s body, keeping it a few inches above his skin. A holographic display manifested in the palm of her opposite hand, shifting in time with the movement of the bead.

Strange’s voice was hoarse and reedy as he said, “If there _was_ , I wouldn’t be able to tell you, now would I?”

Shuri didn’t miss a beat: “Right, then: recite a poem for me,” she demanded, continuing her examination.

Strange’s eyes brightened somewhat, but it looked as though his disbelieving frown still pained him to make. “Are you serious?”

“Strange,” Shuri growled, “I am _trying_ to save your life: could you resist the urge to be a thorn in my side for just one moment?”

Stephen might have laughed, but if he did it was lost in a coughing fit. “Right,” he said when he’d recovered. “ _Hah_ … what do you want to hear?”

Wong and the other masters were speaking in hushed voices on the far side of the study, their words lost in the crash of the rain outside. They seemed to come to some sort of agreement, parting ways to move themselves into different parts of the room: the unknown masters in either of the corners across from the door, and Wong just beside it.

“We’re sealing off the sanctum,” Wong announced to the room at large. “It’s the only way to be certain no further harm comes to the Sorcerer Supreme until we root out this infestation.” He looked pointedly at Shuri. “Are you alright with staying a while?”

Continuing her scan of Strange’s body, Shuri smiled wickedly. “As luck would have it, my brother is away on business – and so I am without a curfew.”

Loki surprised himself by smiling at that, and shrank back into his corner in the hope that no one would notice.

Wong nodded curtly, clapping his hands together and drawing glowing sigils in the air. As they grew and were mirrored by the other masters, Loki felt the prickle of a ward creeping up around them.

“The entire sanctum is open to you,” Wong said, eyes on the ceiling as he bent strands of light together into an intricate mandala. “As far as I am concerned,” he continued, looking at Loki, “you are the only person I trust with Strange’s life. See that my trust is not given in vain.”

Loki didn’t know what to say to that, so he only nodded. Once his statement was received Wong clapped his hands together, producing a shower of sparks that whirled in the air and crashed against the walls. All at once there was a sense of closeness, of insulation, and Loki felt sure their spell had worked.

“Once this portal closes,” Wong said, stepping towards Loki as the other two masters set about creating a gateway, “no one should be able to get in or out. If someone comes through a portal that is not me, do not hesitate to kill them.”

Loki’s face must have betrayed his alarm, for Wong came closer and spoke more softly, “I know that I ask much of you, to kill in defense of a sanctum. Such a responsibility sits firmly under the purview of the masters, but I fear –”

“Where I come from,” Loki interrupted, “killing in defense of one’s home is among the noblest ways to die.” He managed to plaster on a crooked smile. “But I don’t intend to die today.”

At this Wong smiled and, after a moment’s hesitation, set a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “We’ll make a master of you yet, _boka_ ,” he said in a way that might be construed as affectionate, though Loki wasn’t sure he was prepared to go that far.

The silence left behind by the departing sorcerers was broken by Strange’s tremulous voice, reciting a poem as Shuri had asked. Loki approached the pair of them now that the other masters had gone. So transfixed was he by the weak rise and fall of Strange’s chest, the disordered trembling of his hands, that he entirely failed to notice the poem’s subject matter until he was within arm’s reach of them.

“… and the storm is fast descending; yet I cannot go. Clouds… _hah_ … beyond clouds above me…”

Mindful of the space between himself and Shuri, Loki crouched down next to the chaise. Shuri spared him only a passing glance, saying nothing as she furiously typed into an illuminated tablet in her lap.

“… wastes beyond wastes below; but nothing drear can… _hah_ … can move me. I will not, cannot go.”

Loki had never seen Strange cry before, and he decided that it was among his least favorite phenomena in the universe. Loki began to reach for him, but thought better of it before his hand was able to reach the cheek he longed to touch. Frost had begun to crystallize between the raised markings on the backs of his hands and the surrounding skin – blue, like a corpse in a frozen lake, and he recoiled as much from himself as for Stephen’s sake. He told himself that the aborted movement Strange’s limbs had seemed to make in answer was simply a spasm induced by the venom.

_“Good evening, Madame Director,”_

Loki startled at the smooth, foreign female voice. Shuri appeared to be holding a conversation with a ball of blue light emitted by the black bead that had until minutes ago been scanning Strange’s body.

“Hello, FRIDAY,” Shuri replied pleasantly, “I need to speak with Mister Parker immediately, please.”

_“Of course, Madame Director. One moment, pl –”_

_“FRIDAY, executive override: password, ‘lights out’. Hey, Shuri – you know, I do encourage Underoos to take care of his social calls during the daylight hours. Something I can help you with?”_

_Stark,_ Loki thought, lip curling. He supposed he didn’t really have much in the way of solid reasoning behind the contemptuous sneer; perhaps it was just the man’s ego, or a remnant of their interaction all those years ago, in his tower in New York. Or maybe it was the fact that he had kept Loki in a barren holding cell in the corner of his laboratory for days while sending Strange in to invade his mind.

Perhaps the sneer was not so lacking in basis, then.

Shuri’s grimace twisted itself into a working facsimile of a smile – enough to lend a sunny tone to her response: “Mister Stark, good evening – a pleasure as always.”

_“Uh-huh, yeah – so, you gonna tell me what this is about, or –?”_

_“Mister Stark?”_

Loki recognized the voice of the young man with the small, mechanical spider companion.

_“I thought I heard a call come through to my room, but FRIDAY said you overrode it?”_

_“Oh, Mister Parker - just screening your calls for you, you know, since you’re supposed to be busy sleeping.”_

The floating light above the bead pulsed in time with the speakers’ voices while Shuri pinched the bridge of her nose. Loki had the impression that Shuri was not an impatient woman, or given easily to anger – but Loki’s teeth were grinding just from the proximity of Stark’s unwitting and severe annoyance. “Tony,” Shuri strained, “If you do not hand the call over to Peter, I swear I will send my brother over there so quickly, you won’t –”

_“Say no more,”_ came Stark’s swift reply. _“Parker, you’re up. Don’t run up the minutes and make sure you put the phone back on the hook.”_

_“Mister Stark, you know dialup is dead, right? And nobody uses minutes, anymore.”_

“Peter, focus,” Shuri insisted, “I need you to send me the formulae you showed me for your failed web polymer.” Her eyes flicked up as she spoke, taking in Strange’s pallor and the shallow, weak breaths that seemed to be exhausting him. He was covered in a sheen of sweat and alternated between shivering and trying feebly to claw away his clothes. Loki did reach forward then, laying a hand across Stephen’s forehead. Strange inhaled sharply at his touch, but soon released what sounded like a sigh of relief. His skin was so feverish against Loki’s palm that the frost on his knuckles appeared to be melting.

“Thank you,” Strange said breathlessly, eyes falling shut. Loki said nothing, couldn’t say anything. He just kept his hand on Stephen’s forehead as Shuri wrapped up her conversation with Peter. When Strange saw Loki more clearly through the haze of whatever was happening to him, he tried again to reach out, only to have his arm fall limply to his side. Having replaced the bead in her bracelet, Shuri moved on in her assessment by adhering two square patches to Strange’s chest, connected by slim blue wires to her tablet. “Do not complicate my work, Stephen,” she chastised him, moving his arm aside. “Recall that I am trying to save your _life_.”

It was at this point that Shuri more explicitly acknowledged Loki’s presence. “Here,” she said, somewhat more gently than she’d spoken to Strange, Tony or Peter. “If you want to help, hang on to this.” She handed him a glass screen that displayed an array of numbers and letters whose purpose Loki could generally deduce. These were medical devices, taking the measure of Strange’s life. He wasn’t sure he was glad to behold it.

Strange’s breathing slowed to nearly nothing, and Loki saw a precipitous drop in some of the readings. He turned to Shuri and found the fortitude to ask, “Is he… dead?”

Shuri spared a glance for the screen Loki held up for her. “No,” she said gently, meeting his eyes with such a _lack_ of reproach or disgust that Loki felt taken aback. “But he is dying,” Shuri finished, rummaging through her second case.

“What can I do?”

Shuri began to speak, and Loki got the impression that his “help” would mainly consist of listening as she worked through her thoughts. “Typically, I would administer an antivenom, but this is an antigen more complex than any I’ve ever seen, and it goes without saying that no one else has seen it, either – at least not on this planet.” She continued to plug away at the tablet in her lap, referring at intervals to the screen Loki held. “Normally, an antidote would require fresh samples of the poison, but I was able to use Peter’s equations to replicate its molecular structure closely enough that I think it should work.” She retrieved a syringe and a bottle of what smelled like rubbing alcohol, donning a pair of thin gloves before searching for a vein in the crook of Stephen’s elbow.

“Antivenom is made by putting small amounts of the venom into a donor animal and extracting the hyperimmunized serum to inject into the patient – primitive though that is.” She read through the data display Loki held up for her before drawing a sample of Strange’s blood. Strange appeared not to notice. “But I can’t think of any animal with the constitution to withstand the process with _this_ venom.” She cleaned off the drop of blood that welled up when the needle was extracted, applying a bandage before sitting back on her heels and putting the blood-filled vial into an awaiting slot inside one of the cases. “And I’m afraid we are running out of time.”

Loki matched Shuri’s posture as his eyes fixed upon Stephen’s face, the clammy sweat on his brow, the way his eyes twitched restlessly behind their lids, chapped lips that parted to let through short puffs of air.

“I’ll do it,” Loki said flatly.

Shuri looked at him then – _really_ looked at him – but her eyes didn’t hold surprise or fear or disgust. She was curious, calculating, appraising.

“I don’t have enough data to know for sure whether you would survive,” she said after a pause.

Loki began to shake his head, to say he didn’t care, when Strange made an especially pained noise, fingers twitching feebly as he tried to curl in on himself. Shuri’s eyes widened as she tore off her gloves and looked back at the tablet that was connected to the patches on Strange’s chest. A few taps were enough to make Stephen more comfortable, but Loki felt sure this wasn’t a real solution.

“How long does he have?” he asked.

Shuri’s dark eyes held his own unflinchingly. “Sooner is better,” she said quietly, “before it has a chance to cause any permanent damage.”

“Then we must try,” Loki insisted.

Shuri stood and offered Loki her hand, but he didn’t take it. It would make a poor impression were he to give the one person who seemed genuinely unbothered by his appearance a case of frostbite. She seemed to understand, pulling her hand back with a nod and a conspiratorial smile – like they were sharing a secret. It was at this moment that Strange’s voice reached them again, calling for Loki.

He moved closer to the couch, taking up the place nearer to Stephen’s face that Shuri had occupied before she’d stood up. “Strange,” Loki said with a confidence he did not feel, “you must rest.”

“No,” he rasped, “no, you can’t.”

Loki frowned. “Can’t what? Tell you to rest?”

“You can’t do this,” Stephen huffed, his breathing labored. “I won’t let you… die for me,” he finished weakly.

Loki snorted. “Presumptuous of you, thinking that I’d die from a little snake bite.” That made Strange’s mouth twitch into something like a smile, before even that became too much effort.

“I’m… sorry,” he wheezed. This time, when he reached out, Loki reluctantly let his hand be held. Stephen shivered against the chill of Loki’s skin but used whatever remaining strength he had to keep his grip. “Please don’t do this,” he begged, fresh tears falling freely from his eyes. “I can’t lose you, not you, Loki, please. There’s so much… _hah_ … I have to say…”

Loki couldn’t help bringing his other hand to cup Stephen’s cheek, and this time Stephen leaned into the chill, fevered flesh clammy beneath Loki’s palm. “No one is dying today, Strange,” Loki declared, “least of all me. Save your apologies for later, when I won’t feel badly about hitting you.”

  
Strange laughed anemically. Loki attempted to commit the sound to memory – because for all the confidence he may have infused into his assertion, he was desperately afraid that Stephen would not survive this. That his own life might end seemed a distant, secondary concern.

Shuri had been using her beads to scan Loki as he engaged with Strange, moving things around on her tablet and inspecting another piece of equipment before she looked at Loki and reluctantly said, “It might just work.”

Strange’s grip tightened, but then fell slack. “Loki, no,” he begged hoarsely. “You’re not… an _animal_.”

Loki thought of the clinical way Shuri had referred to a “donor animal” as necessary to make antivenom. If this shape – this twisted, bestial mockery of the person Loki had always been – could let him save Strange, even at the cost of his own life, then perhaps he could appreciate it, if only a little. Maybe one of his deaths could finally be useful.

“I was struck with one of their blades,” Loki said to Shuri, holding Strange’s eyes. “In my shoulder. The poison hasn’t affected me the way it has Strange.” Shuri stepped behind him to inspect the wound, voicing surprise that it was almost completely healed, with only a few jagged purple lines radiating out.

“Yes,” she said, her confidence building. “If your immune system has already begun to make antibodies, I might be able to extract enough to synthesize an antivenom with only a relatively small dose. Yes, yes – okay, this could work.” She began energetically moving pieces of equipment and supplies between the cases.

Strange was back to making feeble sounds of protest, trying in vain to reach for either of them before his arms fell limp. Overcome suddenly by line of thought Loki knelt in the space between Shuri and Strange, hesitating only briefly before taking Strange’s sallow cheeks between his frigid, blue hands. The touch was met again with a sigh of relief, and Strange did manage to move his hand, then – to hold his trembling fingers over Loki’s.

“You can’t stop this,” he told Strange. He had to swallow hard before he could go on. “And while I have no intention of dying – not for you, and not for anyone else – know this, Strange: neither you nor I are free to leave the mortal plane until you have answered to me for your deception…” He glanced self-consciously over his shoulder before deciding that he didn’t much care if Shuri heard, adding, “and for saying that you care about me.”

Shuri tactfully ignored this exchange in favor of gathering her supplies and setting up one of the cases to remain with Strange. “We’ll only be a short distance away,” she told Stephen, “and the system should keep you stabilized for now. If anything goes wrong, I will be notified, and we will return.”

Shuri led the way down the corridor outside, as comfortable with the sanctum’s layout as if she lived there herself. Loki followed dutifully, motioning towards one of the doorways a few feet down the hall. Shuri stopped to look back at him.

“This one will be suitable, I think,” Loki said, twisting the brass knob. “It’s much the same size as the other.”

Shuri made no move to follow as he began to walk through the doorway, and when he cast his eyes to her, confused and prepared to ask what the matter was, he watched her shift her weight uncomfortably.

“Is there another… somewhat further down?” she asked awkwardly.

Loki realized that the markings on his forehead changed the way it felt when he frowned; his brow felt more deeply furrowed, now. But he surrendered easily, following Shuri further and further away from Strange. He was about to ask her to stop, to ask if she really wanted to be this far away, when his stomach dropped, and his throat tightened as understanding dawned over him.

Thunder crashed outside as they came at last to another study, one Shuri judged to be far enough out of earshot.

They stepped lightly into the study, as if trying to preserve the storm’s roaring silence for as long as they could. Loki stood before the large oak desk, his back to Shuri and the rest of the room. He settled his fingertips on its surface to hide their trembling.

“You think it will hurt that badly?” he asked as she began to retrieve and assemble her tools from inside the case, which she set on top of a mahogany table next to a set of armchairs. There was only one reason she would bring them this far away from Strange.

She didn’t want him to hear Loki’s screams.

She slowed in her movements and looked at him with genuine sympathy. “I’m afraid so,” she said, clear but quiet. “This substance works by attacking your cells and breaking them down. You appear to have significant regenerative capabilities, but…”

Loki swallowed thickly but said nothing, only nodded by way of reply. Things progressed quickly from there. Shuri was sure but gentle in her motions, settling him in one of the wing-backed armchairs and gathering up her tools. What she referred to as her “pop-up lab” was folded out and up from disparate pieces inside of her case. Loki let himself openly admire her handiwork and listened gratefully as she explained some of her devices to him. In the minutes it took for her to bring things into readiness Shuri apologized for having to introduce herself under such circumstances and made a point to mention that Stephen had spoken highly of him. To this, Loki was unsure how to reply. His heart was twisted by Strange’s betrayal, full to bursting with frustrated affection, and it recoiled each time his arms came into his view, or he caught his reflection in a window or pane of glass.

Shuri appeared genuinely upset by what she was about to do. She explained that, according to her calculations, they should be able to get enough of the synthesized antigen into him within five or ten minutes. She couldn’t flush the venom out with a transfusion of clean blood, as she would have liked to, without risking further harm, since her knowledge of Asgardian biology was lacking. This meant that the venom would have to work its way through him. She was gentle, but frank. She didn’t inflate his chances of survival: she stood by her assessment that his Jotun form possessed the fortitude to withstand what she had termed “Makluan envenomation”, but that she could not guarantee his survival.

It was as she placed a catheter in his arm to accept the intravenous solution that would introduce the venom that Loki felt the weight of her words settle over him. He began to seriously consider that this might kill him. He wasn’t sure what made him say what he was thinking, that Strange’s life was more important than his. He had more to give the world and had done far less to harm it than Loki had.

Anchoring the catheter with a piece of medical tape, Shuri knelt before him and took his hands in hers – and if the chill of his skin bothered her, she gave no sign. He was reminded absurdly of the blanket that Strange had laid upon down the hall, shades of brown and blue.

“Loki,” Shuri’s smooth, lyrical voice reached him through his fear. “Your life is just as valuable, just as beautiful as the lives of every other living thing, something to be cared for – not wasted.” She shifted their hands so that both of his were between hers. “And right now,” she said, seeking his eye, “a bravery that I can only imagine is telling you to take that life in your hands for the good of someone other than yourself.” She smiled at him, and her eyes were so dark that his own were reflected only in black – melting, joining hers without tarnishing their warmth. “None of the monsters I’ve ever met ever did anything so noble.”

At that, Loki snorted. “Let’s not get carried away,” he sneered weakly. “I am still a villain in recovery, after all. I could relapse at any moment.”

It occurred to him that this was pehaps the single worst joke he could tell, under present circumstances – but Shuri just laughed. It was a bright, easy sound, not forced or pained. “Well,” she said, rising and giving his hands a final squeeze, “we shall see, won’t we?”

Shuri took up her post in front of her improvised workstation – a network of minimally constructed but sturdy beams and joints, with a small centrifuge and a receptacle for the samples she would take from Loki.

Loki closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to last rites and final goodbyes. Frigga’s funeral pyre that he’d never seen; the day Odin had returned to the roots of Yggdrasil; the deaths of friends and loved ones, of teachers and warriors. He considered what he might miss, if this was to be his last night, and found himself thinking not only of Strange, but of Thor. The man who had never really been his brother, and who had never been anything else, was with him even now in the thunder that crashed outside. Despite the frustration, the bad blood and painful lies, Thor had always come back to him. Even now he waited in New Asgard, hoping that Loki would one day come home.

_Home,_ Loki thought. Now there was something worth living for: the one thing he’d never really had. His eyes stung, but he kept them stubbornly open, drying his tears before they fell. For Thor and for Strange, and for the chance to make his own home, he would survive this night.

Shuri’s eyes, wide and serious, held his. “Are you ready?”

Loki nodded, and watched as Shuri reluctantly began the infusion.

“This is all done remotely,” she explained, “so that I can work here with the immunized serum as soon as it’s extracted.” A series of soft chimes sounded. “Pushing saline.”

A salty chill came into the back of his throat. He calmed his heart as it leapt, telling himself it was nothing more than a nose full of seawater and would be gone soon.

“Introducing the synthetic antigen,” Shuri warned him before pressing another series of buttons.

For a few long seconds, Loki felt nothing. Then a warmth like that of a catching fire crackled under his skin, spreading up and through his arm. He attempted to regulate his breathing, to breathe through the pain, but as it climbed his arm he could feel himself beginning to sweat – the beads soon freezing against his skin, which seemed to be trying to make itself colder to deal with whatever was happening to his body.

“Immunocyte saturation holding strong,” Shuri said in a way that might have been encouraging, if Loki didn’t need his full concentration to keep from leaping up from the chair and ripping the IV and catheter out of his arm. His veins were on fire, a febrile heat around his head, and he tasted blood on his tongue. It didn’t take long for the pain to overwhelm him, for Shuri’s words to lose their meaning as he gripped the arms of the chair ferociously. The stifled grunts and groans of the first few minutes were replaced with louder, harsher noises as the pain only increased. It seemed impossible from one moment to the next that it could hurt any worse, and yet with each passing second Loki felt more and more desperately the pull on his lungs, the fire piercing his bones, and for all that he might have wanted to remain quiet for Strange’s sake, Loki’s screams pierced the heavy air of the sanctum’s stormy night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a LOT of research into antivenom/antivenin for this chapter. Side note: BOTH of those words are correct identifiers for a substance created in this way, for this purpose. I never knew that!  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆


	14. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brothers, am I right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your feedback! It’s so great to know that people are enjoying the story  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆ 
> 
> Also I guess Shuri is a recurring character now??

In what proved to be a great stroke of luck, Shuri had set aside the following week to spend on “vacation” with her mother – traveling, making speeches, shaking hands, building bridges (literal and metaphorical) – and while the nanocarbon bridge-building initiative _was_ one that Shuri was especially proud of, she was pleased to have an excuse to remain out of the public eye. She much preferred the walls of her lab to those of Western airports and the stuffy, grey buildings they insisted were the height of modern engineering.

A kimoyo bead conference let her explain the basics: she had been urgently summoned by a friend of the Avengers to assist with an emergency. Her mother was naturally a bit suspicious that this summons came just in time to keep Shuri from the trip, but ended the call by saying that Okoye would be relieved to avoid the logistics of providing security for a princess who couldn’t seem to keep herself out of trouble, and T’challa would be joining them in Paris, anyway.

Wong returned to the sanctum the next day to find Strange and Loki both battered, but breathing. He helped Shuri move them both to their sleeping quarters, and hardly batted an eye when Shuri gave instructions, declining to question or contradict her in the tiresome ways many older people did. Once they had Loki and Strange settled in their beds, hooked to IV drips, Wong had led her to the kitchen and told her what had happened.

Tina Minoru, the former master of the Hong Kong sanctum, was dead – but more than that, she had risen to her position of power while concealing her identity as one of the Makluan, lying in wait for their chance to conquer Earth. Wong was scant on the details of what had transpired after he and masters Cormac and Zhou had departed the sanctum, but the darkness around his eyes, the spots of blood on his robe, and his declaration that the “infestation” had been “cleared out” told Shuri what she needed to know.

She had sent Wong to bed, and he hadn’t protested. She spent the rest of that night collecting data from her equipment, glad to have a chance to privately wonder at Loki’s biology… and to consider how she would approach him when he awoke.

~*~

The headache that seethed behind Stephen’s eyes staunchly refused to leave him for several long days. He slept only fitfully, and his waking hours were hazy and uncomfortable. When he did manage to sleep, his dreams were dark and filled with the distant sound of someone screaming.

Once he was able to stay conscious longer than a few minutes at a time and speaking didn’t make him nauseous, the first thing he asked of Shuri was whether Loki was alright.

“He lives,” she’d said simply, and that was all Stephen knew. It didn’t occur to him until much later that she might have been vague on purpose; from what Wong said, it sounded like she and Loki had been spending much time together.

As the week progressed and he grew more lucid, Wong filled him in on what had happened. Minoru herself had been one of the masters that had come to kill Strange that night in the garden. Strange learned she had died with a friend’s dagger buried in her chest, and he felt little in the way of pity. The death would have been quick enough, if a touch painful.

He could live with that.

Minoru had covered her tracks well, but despite her efforts to conceal him, Wong and a handful of other masters had discovered the resting place of Fin Fang Foom – a temple on the outskirts of an old trading village, secluded and quiet. Minoru had evidently begun the process of resuscitating her comatose leader, but this had ultimately failed. The temple was under guard and the masters were in the process of laying wards and conducting careful research to make sure that the extraterrestrial dragon continued to rest peacefully.

Stephen confessed everything to Wong: the misguided glamour, the ill-fated tongue-in-cheek remarks, even his budding tenderness for Loki. To his surprise, Wong made no comment about that last part – though he had quite a bit to say regarding Strange’s willful deception.

“You betrayed his trust.” Wong’s voice was soft, not scathing or angry, and somehow Stephen felt all the worse for it. “You betrayed _my_ trust, by not telling me about this.”

“Let me guess,” Stephen said darkly, “you’re not mad, you’re just disappointed?”

“No, I’m pretty mad."

Stephen laughed humorlessly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Do not mistake restraint for complacency, or for forgiveness. Anger passes, but broken trust is sorely regained. You and I have known each other for a long time; you’ve hurt me, and I’ll forgive you.” Wong narrowed his eyes. “Eventually.”

Stephen directed his attention to his lap, picking at his blanket with twitching fingers.

“But,” Wong continued, “you haven’t known Loki as long, and you’ve lied to him more and hurt him more deeply.”

“I was trying –”

“Damn your intentions, Strange,” Wong snapped. “Use that big head of yours in service of something _other_ than yourself. You cast a spell on him without his consent. You let him believe that the only reason he couldn’t do magic was that you were holding him back – not that he’d lost it entirely.”

Wong leaned forward in his chair. “Stephen,” he said, voice gentling somewhat, “you must make this right – not only because you’ve developed an ill-advised crush on a Norse god, but because you have been a bad friend. It’s as simple as that.”

“What can I do?” Stephen asked helplessly. His headache was returning, made worse by the building sense that he might actually cry. “How can I ask him to forgive me for this?”

“Apologize,” Wong said firmly, “admit that you were wrong, and beg his forgiveness.”

“That’s it?”

Wong scowled. “It’s a _start_ , and it’s your only option.” He looked like he was considering whether to say something else, but shook his head minutely and looked as if he was rising to leave.

“What is it?” Strange asked, reaching as if to stop him.

Wong observed him coolly. “Thor has been asking after him,” he said at last. “I told him that you and Loki had locked yourselves in the library and asked not to be disturbed. That won’t keep him away for long.”

Stephen’s stomach gave a violent lurch. If Thor found out what had happened – not only that Loki had been put in harm’s way, but that he’d _poisoned_ himself to save Strange’s life – he’d surely insist that Loki leave the sanctum.

“You must have known this would come,” Wong said, “that he would eventually go home.”

_Home_. Before he could think better of it, Stephen blurted, “The _sanctum_ is his home.”

Wong paused at the door. “Is it?” he asked. “A home is somewhere you feel safe, cared for – surrounded by people you can trust. Does that sound right to you?”

Wong was right a lot of the time, and usually Stephen didn’t mind – but he wished more than anything that he could honestly say he’d gotten this wrong.

~*~

“You’re almost there.”

“I can’t get it –”

“Turn your wrist as you go.”

“Like this?”

“Here, let me.”

Shuri’s fingers gentled Loki’s aside. She folded over strands of his hair, making quick work of the task Loki had been attempting to master for days (with little success).

“Never have I been so confounded by my own hair,” he grumbled.

Shuri laughed. “Have you never styled it yourself?”

Loki snorted. “No – I’ve always relied on my natural beauty and charisma to see me though.”

She hit him with a mischievous smirk. “And modest, too.”

Her teasing only made him smile. “Despite my present… state… I assure you that I _am_ generally considered quite handsome.”

Shuri sent him a flat look, pausing in her work. “You are _still_ handsome, Loki,” she deadpanned, “don’t sell yourself short.”

The price of keeping the secret of his Jotun heritage had been that Loki could never talk with anyone about it. With Shuri, though, talk came easily. Loki had the distant thought that she could be dangerous – perhaps _was_ dangerous, with her disarming smiles and gentle eyes.

“You are the only person I have ever met who was not immediately revolted by my appearance.”

Shuri clicked her tongue at him. “Stop that,” she chided. “Have you considered that you might be mistaking surprise for revulsion?”

Loki looked down at his black fingernails and the nested chevron scars on the backs of his icy blue hands. “No,” he said quietly.

A moment of silence passed before Shuri tugged the braid she was working on, earning herself a half-hearted glare. “Well, you might want to start,” she asserted, tying the braid off with a thin leather cord. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re quite a pretty thing, now that you’re out of those rags Stephen had you in.”

Truthfully, Strange’s wardrobe choices for Loki had served him well enough – comfortable, with sleeves of a length to cover him to his wrists, as he lately preferred. He was fortunate that he and the doctor were approximately the same height and build. But Shuri had an aesthetic sense that uncannily matched Loki’s own, though the garments she brought him were rather different in style than those to which he was accustomed: long tunics intricately embroidered with green and gold thread, loose-fitting trousers so soft it hardly felt like he was wearing anything. Loki had at first been hesitant to allow her to put him in what she called “statement pieces” – blocks of bright color and tessellated shapes, batiks and angular, low-cut collars – but after a few days and her repeated insistence that he _belonged_ in them, he didn’t have the heart to resist.

“I worked hard for years to make sure I would never be seen like this again,” he said, eyes firmly on his hands as Shuri made short work of a second braid. “And now I’m trapped in this…” He stopped short of insulting himself; Shuri had grown tired of that rather quickly. But what else could he say?

“I’m trapped,” he finished softly.

Shuri moved one hand to his cheek. Loki was unused to being touched in this way but was surprised to find it rather to his liking. It was the kind of casual intimacy he’d heard about and seen, but seldom been a part of.

“You cannot get away from yourself by moving from one place to another,” she cautioned him. “This will not go away simply because you wish it.” She let her hands return to their work. “The longer you deny this part of yourself, the longer you will suffer.”

She honored Loki’s request that they change the subject and asked him instead for his thoughts on what had transpired that stormy night in the study. Somehow, this felt easier to discuss. A tap of her kimoyo beads brought up a series of hard light holograms in the air between Loki’s bed and the chair in which Shuri sat, her quick fingers moving deftly between buttons and graphical displays.

“See here?” She pointed to a sharply-sloping graph. “The antigen is gone from your system – it didn’t take you very long to reduce the concentration to basically zero.”

She held out her hand expectantly. Loki tried to look annoyed but ultimately gave in, meeting her palm with his. Their fingers slid together, breaking away before snapping once and crossing their arms over their chests. Shuri had taken every opportunity over the last few days to make Loki practice her secret handshake – to help build up his reflexes, of course.

“I thought that was just for us, little sister.”

Loki’s eyes snapped to the door – the door he hadn’t heard open – and the man standing just inside of it. He wore a full-body suit that covered him from the neck downward, all in black. A wide arc of silver claws laid around his shoulders, with additional silver accents at the crests of his hips and the knuckles of his gauntlets.

“Brother!” Shuri sounded scandalized, rushing out of her chair to push uselessly against his chest. “Do you have no concept of privacy? Are you really this pig-headed?”

The man smiled, revealing rows of straight, white teeth. He spoke in lyrically accented English, like Shuri. “I asked Wong where I might find my sister to bring an end to her truancy, and he directed me here.” His eyes landed on Loki.

“And who is this?” the brother asked, stepping forward into the room. His dark eyes were open and kind, but Loki felt himself freeze like a rabbit in view of a fox. He saw his body’s color palette refracted in the silver lines of the man’s suit, twists of blue and black and a splash of bright red.

Shuri stepped forward, sending Loki an apologetic glance. “T’challa, this is Loki Odinson. Loki, my brother T’challa, king of Wakanda, the Black Panther and a perpetual _thorn_ in my _side_.” She punctuated her last point with sharp jabs at T’challa’s shoulder. A purplish light rippled across his suit but T’challa seemed utterly unaffected, to Shuri’s vocal annoyance.

“Ah, the man from Asgard – Thor’s brother,” T’challa said. He smiled warmly, brought a hand to his chest and inclined his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Loki,” he said, “but I am afraid I must deprive you of my sister’s company.”

“I am quite capable of making my own way home, brother,” Shuri said. Loki had never seen her so prickly. “Is there a reason you’ve come to disturb me in my work?”

“Our Queen Mother requests your presence,” he said, turning to his sister. “Something about a nanocarbon bridge and a missive from the U.N.”

Shuri made a frustrated noise. “If I’ve told them once, I have told them a _thousand_ times…” She returned to Loki’s side, taking his hand and smiling apologetically. “I am sorry to cut our time short,” she said, slipping her bracelet onto his wrist, “but should you need me, this will let us stay in contact. I will teach you its other functions later, but by pressing on this bead – the one with the symbol, you see? – you will be able to reach me. It is _vitally_ important that you tell me of any further symptoms or side effects – do you understand?”

Loki went stiff when she leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek, holding him fast with a gentle hand on his hair. When she drew back to look at him, the red of his eyes was again peacefully subsumed into the dark warmth of hers. “Be well, my pretty viper,” she said, patting his cheek affectionately before turning to T’challa, pushing past him and cursing his intrusion all the way down the hall.

Already, it seemed so quiet without her.

Without the pleasant distraction of Shuri’s company, Loki was left alone with his thoughts. They were of Stephen… and many of them were angry.

His anger seemed to burn brighter than before, and more clearly. Once the venom had cleared his system his senses seemed sharper, his thoughts more precise. He wondered what more Strange’s bastardized glamour might have affected, outside of his appearance, and felt a swell of teeth-grinding rage.

He refused to submit to the compulsion to break things – to wrench the vanity away from the wall and throw it at the door – though the temptation was strong. Seldom had his temper manifested itself in this way – in a hunger for destruction – but it seemed only to happen when something _else_ had broken, something that couldn’t be replaced. _How droll,_ he thought to himself blandly.

Instead, he walked from his room down to the rotunda. Maddening as it was, being close to the door that led to Earth’s arctic region reliably calmed him in these moods. Perhaps as a result of seldom being exposed, his Jotun body seemed to have trouble regulating its temperature. This, along with Wong’s pointed remarks about plans to remain on the other side of the sanctum for the day, was why Stephen would later find Loki shirtless, standing before the gateway and staring at frigid water and cold, bright snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some thinking and realized that Loki and T’challa have never met, in the Marvel movies - wild, right?
> 
> This dynamic between Shuri and Loki was not at all what I had planned, but suddenly she was showing Loki how to braid his hair and, well... here we are.


	15. What We Owe Each Other

Strange found Loki in the rotunda.

The middle of the three gateways was linked to somewhere in the arctic – great slabs of floating ice, glacial shelves and raw, rushing wind. Loki wore no shirt, just a dark pair of linen slacks as he stood, staring into the gateway. Against the blue of his skin, pale markings extended back from his torso, cradling his ribcage and tapering off beneath his shoulder blades. Three lines curled like pauldrons around his shoulders, but if there were more they were obscured by the dark sweep of his hair.

Stephen’s boots announced his presence, but Loki gave no sign of acknowledgement. Stephen tried to think of something to say, a way to… the phrase _break the ice_ came to mind and he very nearly groaned. Instead, he walked slowly forward and stood next to Loki without a word.

Neither said anything for what felt to Stephen like a long while. It seemed odd, given what he knew about Loki’s feelings on his appearance, that he would be wandering the sanctum shirtless, but that was a question that could wait for its answer.

Strange crossed his arms. “Loki, I –”

“Don’t.”

Knowing better than to argue, Strange didn’t. He did look at Loki, then, and had his breath stolen when he found that he only appeared _more_ attractive unglamoured.  
  
The blue cast of his skin shone in the light that was reflected off the ice and snow through the gateway, faint, pale marks accentuating the curve of his cheeks and the breadth of his forehead. Two parallel lines swept up under his bottom lip, accentuating its small, natural pout. His eyes, not just red in the iris but a glossy rose where the whites had been, were striking and deep and utterly captivating. The first time Stephen had seen him in his Jotun form, Loki had been emaciated, and the lights had been too low to see him clearly. Now, in the light of day, he was a vision.

When it seemed apparent that Loki wasn’t going to start the conversation, Strange took another stab at it. “I want to make this right,” he said, “to the extent that I can. I know I haven’t given you very many reasons to trust me –”

“You’re right. You haven’t.”

“But,” Stephen pressed, “I want you to know that I plan to be more forthcoming – truthful, from now on.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed but remained resolutely focused on the snow. “How solicitous of you.”

Strange inclined his head, pursed his lips. “I know you’re angry with me, but I _am_ trying to apologize.”

Loki’s mouth split around a bitter laugh. “Oh, is _that_ what you’re doing? Forgive me: you’re so patronizing I could’ve sworn it was one of your tedious lectures."

_Let him have this,_ Stephen counseled himself. This was a mess of his own making; Loki was more than justified in his anger.

It was with some difficulty that Stephen got out this next part. “I would understand if you wanted to leave the sanctum –”

Loki’s eyes snapped to Stephen. There was a flash of fear that he couldn’t quite conceal, though it was gone as quickly as it came.

“ – but you don’t have to. I won’t send you to New Asgard if that isn’t what you want.”

“What reason have I to take the word of a truth-twisting sorcerer?” Loki spat.

Stephen couldn’t help that he bristled. “Don’t get sanctimonious – you’re not the person to lecture anyone about honesty.”

He regretted his words immediately.

Loki’s voice boomed against the rotunda’s walls. “I have been _nothing_ but honest with you!” He turned on his heel and began to pace with a stalking gait. His words were clipped, long vowels and soft consonants hardened and honed to an edge. “Since the moment you brought me here, I have done as you asked. I have followed your ridiculous rules, went along with all of the games you’ve been playing. All this, despite that you spent days tromping through my memories, wandering around inside my life and making me relive every death I barely escaped, every foul deed I ever committed, each wrongful accusation and contemptuous glare I have ever suffered.”

A guilty pit had formed in Stephen’s stomach. “It wasn’t my choice,” he snapped. “There wasn’t any other option. I have a responsibility –”

“Helheim take your damn _responsibility_ ,” Loki railed with an impatient gesture.

“What do you want me to do, Loki?” Stephen demanded. “What can I possibly say to convince you that I’m sorry?”

“Begin by offering me whatever paltry excuse you have for doing to me what you did.”

Stephen breathed hard through his nose, clenching his hands as their shaking intensified. “I built your glamour because I saw how much you hate the way your body looks without it. I didn’t just _observe_ those feelings in you; I felt them myself. I felt how intensely your magic is a part of you – I _know_ that feeling.”

Stephen held up his hands, observed their trembling. Loki’s gaze passed between them and Strange’s face, and though his eyes shone with fury he made no comment. “I lost everything,” Stephen said, “and it’s only thanks to the mystic arts that I’m not…” He stopped short of following that line of thought, dropped his hands. “… that I am who I am. I thought your powers might return with time, or we would find a different solution.” He gathered his resolve, told himself that he did owe Loki this much, at least. “I imagined how it would have felt, if I came back from the dark dimension without my magic. I didn’t want that for you.” He directed his gaze to the floor. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s why I let you think you could still access your powers. It was… I was wrong.”

“What is the dark dimension?” Loki asked abruptly.

Strange faltered a moment, unable to decipher Loki’s expression. “It’s… it’s a parallel universe that exists outside of time, an amalgamation of itself and all other dimensions it’s managed to consume. Its master, Dormammu, tried to absorb ours a few years back, and I had to trap it in a time loop.”

Silence and the muffled shriek of arctic wind filled the space between them.

“Show me,” came Loki’s voice at last – calm. Too calm.

Stephen frowned, and when he again met Loki’s eyes he struggled to catch his breath. He badly wanted to tell him how beautiful, how _frighteningly_ stunning they were, but this was not the time and that was _certainly_ not the right wording. They were piercing, fathomless, but lit up with the wrong kind of lust. _Out for blood,_ Stephen’s mind whispered.

“That’s not something either of us wants to see,” he said flatly.

He didn’t talk about his time in the dark dimension – not with Wong, not with the Avengers, and certainly not with any therapist. It had taken him ten long years to grind down Dormammu’s will, and in that time, he died many more than a thousand deaths.

Sometimes, an eidetic memory is much more a curse than a blessing. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten – hadn’t needed to. But his mind was awake, always. And it remembered.

He could recall with agonizing clarity the way it felt to be incinerated, to be turned to dust in a manner much more painful than the one to which he and half the universe would later be subjected by Thanos. Strange’s keen mind was only too happy to reacquaint him with the feeling of his lungs being torn apart, of his skin shriveling and peeling back like that of a grape. He’d been bludgeoned, impaled, crushed, stabbed, his bones set aflame while his brain was kept alive. Dormammu had gotten creative, after a while, and the time loop only reset when Stephen actually died.

It could take a long time to die, in the dark dimension.

Stephen was shaken from his reverie by Loki’s voice. “You violated my privacy and robbed me of my dignity. You knew what you were being asked to do, and you did it anyway. You’ve been indebted to me from the beginning - long before your lies about my magic.” He drew back, straightening and putting Stephen in mind of a striking cobra. “And now, I have saved your life. So, _Stephen_ ,” – his voice dripped with derisive scorn – “how will you settle your debt?”

Stephen felt flushed, almost feverish. “So, what – I show you this horrible memory and we’re square?” He searched Loki’s face desperately – for what, he didn’t quite know. Reassurance? He’d never get it. Surety? No – all he saw there was bitterness and that hungry, lusting anger. “Is that really what it will take to make up for my having lied to you?”

“It will make a nice start,” Loki hissed in cruel concession.

Stephen’s breath was coming a little fast, he realized; his heart was racing, and he had begun to sweat. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said gravely. “I died, over and over –”

Loki’s laugh was grating, insincere. “I’ve died plenty of my own deaths; I assure you, watching a few of yours will be no trouble.”

Those words dealt Stephen a blow he felt in his chest, a punched-out feeling that drove the breath from his lungs. There was something like regret on Loki’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Stephen began to feel light-headed and steadied himself through sheer force of will. If this was what Loki wanted – if this was the price for his forgiveness…

“You don’t want to see this,” he breathed, a last warning.

Loki bared his teeth. “I’m quite tired of you making my decisions for me, sorcerer,” he said. Strange distantly noted the stark contrast of blue lips against a pink tongue – pretty, the way poisonous flowers were. “Remember that this all could have been avoided if you had extended me the simple courtesy of an honest word. Instead, you had to go and embarrass us both with your well-intentioned lies.” He stepped forward, menacing in a way Strange had never seen. “Refuse my request or accept it, but do not dare to tell me that you know what I want – not now, not after everything.”

Before he could think better of it, before he could try again to delay or avert it, Stephen stepped forward and put his thumb to Loki’s forehead.

They stood side-by-side in astral space, on one of the floating islands adrift in Dormammu’s realm. The memory of this uncanny landscape and its jumbled physics set Stephen’s teeth on edge. For his part, Loki seemed more curious than anything, turning freely to look at one floating piece of debris or another, watching as warring energies coalesced and broke apart to shape this place. They watched a younger sorcerer crest a distant hill with the aid of the Cloak, checking on the green sigils orbiting his wrist before saying, for the first time, _“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.”_

_“You’ve come to die.”_

The mandalas Strange conjured against Dormammu’s onslaught lasted only so long, and as he saw himself obliterated Stephen tasted blood in his mouth. Loki caught on quickly, sending appraising looks first to one sorcerer, then the other as the cycle continued.

Dormammu’s terrible voice rippled through the void. _“You will spend eternity dying.”_

_“Yes. But everyone on Earth will live.”_

_“But you will **suffer**.”_

_“Pain’s an old friend.”_

Loki’s expression changed – Stephen wasn’t sure when, but it didn’t seem to take long before he wasn’t impressed, anymore. Stephen’s jaw ached from his clenching it, but it was the only way he could be sure he wouldn’t start to scream as the cycle began again.

Torn in half. Crushed. Speared through. Strangled. Divested of his limbs. Yes, he remembered.

_“You will never win.”_

_“No. But I can lose. Again, and again, and again forever. And that makes you my prisoner.”_

_“No – stop. Make this stop!”_

Dormammu was angry, and Stephen was in pain. There was the fire, licking along his bones, rendering the fat from his flesh, but leaving his brain intact. His ears were full of the rushing emptiness of the surrounding void and his own cries of agony as he was unmade and made anew.

_“Make this stop.”_

The words were in Loki’s voice. He gripped Stephen’s bicep, their astral forms entangling as Stephen was brought back from his dissociative vigil. He ended the memory, bringing the two of them back as quickly as was safe to the physical plane.

They fell into their bodies and Stephen didn’t open his eyes. He had to get the images out, had to move his mind away from them or else they’d _be here_ with him and he hadn’t planned on dealing with panic attacks, today, had so much more to do –

Something was touching him, all around him – about his arms and on his shoulders and through his hair, and for a terrible moment Stephen thought that perhaps he _hadn’t_ actually come back. Was this one of the crushing deaths? Dormammu had been fond of those ones – easier, Strange supposed. Less finesse involved.

But, no – this was different. All of the deaths Strange had died in the dark dimension had been hot – assaults made of energy that bombarded his atoms and divided them, drove them apart, and such energy ran _hot_. But this was cool, soothing against the heat of his skin, and he felt like a fool when he understood at last that Loki was holding him.

Strange inhaled sharply as his eyes shot open, chest and throat working to gulp in huge breaths of air as his mind struggled to reorient itself. The nested square fractals of the sanctum’s wooden ceiling grounded him, told him he was somewhere with a _roof_ , somewhere safe, with _someone_ safe –

That was the thought that drove him to push his way out of Loki’s arms to slump against the nearest wall. His face was wet, it was hard to breathe, and his hands and legs were shaking violently. It felt as if Kaecilius was in the sanctum again, twisting the walls and replacing floor with ceiling. Strange tried to move, running his hand along the wall to assure himself it was actually there, but his legs would not hold him, and his knees hit the floor hard.

Darkness crowded his vision, and between his ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart it was difficult to hear. Something was touching his shoulder, a dark shape in his peripheral vision. With a strangled noise and little conscious thought Strange pulled together a sigil of force, hitting the shape with a burst of energy that increased the distance between them. As he sat, arms outstretched and trembling, his sight was gradually restored, heavy breath and pounding heart slowing by increments.

Loki was slumped, seated on the ground. Raising the back of a hand to his lip, it came away bloody. Their eyes met and there they sat, breathing unevenly, nursing wounds that tied them together as much as they pushed them apart, until, eventually, Loki slowly stood and walked from the rotunda. He seemed to take the arctic wind with him, leaving Stephen alone with only the sound of his own tearful breathing.

~*~

It had been a mistake.

A stupid, simple, thoughtless mistake, born of spite and wounded pride. How was he to have known that Strange’s memory would be… _that?_

Loki made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, wearing a groove into the rug as he paced his quarters. This _wasn’t_ his fault. How could it be? He was so angry at Strange – _Strange_ was the one who had done something wrong, _not_ Loki. _Loki_ had followed the rules and Strange had repaid him with lies and insults so grievous that he wanted to take him by the throat, and… and…

He cast around the room, eyes alighting on a nearby stack of books. With a dampened roar he flung them off their table and sent them flying. The heavier ones landed with satisfying _thuds_ while the smaller volumes scraped and slid across the rug and onto the floorboards. He was breathing heavily with the excess force, shoulders heaving with a rage that masqueraded as exertion.

Anger like he had seldom known churned his guts and soured his heart, and now it was all directed inward. Loki had been _justified_ – he’d been _right_. Strange had hurt him, lied to him, taken him for a fool – and what had Loki done, other than save that cretin’s life and follow the rules of his house? Nothing, _that’s_ what.

_Sometimes it’s not about who’s right,_ Frigga’s voice came unbidden to his mind. _Sometimes it’s about knowing when to bury the hatchet._

Loki's jaw clicked audibly as he clenched it. But he _was_ right, and this wasn’t _fair_ – it wasn’t fair that Strange could make him feel _guilty_ for delivering his comeuppance. And it especially wasn’t fair that even now, as these caustic feelings festered inside of him, as he stewed in his own gall, it was all he could do to resist the compulsion to leave his room and apologize – _apologize!_ Ridiculous... This schoolboy’s blush he’d hidden from the sorcerer vexed him now more than ever. It had always been doomed to die in silence, but now Loki had a new appreciation for the term _lovesick_.

He clenched his hands, nails biting into his palms. The skin grew pale around where his short, blackened claws pressed in, turning a color Loki’s mind hysterically likened to periwinkle. Knowing where he was and knowing better, he looked up, into the mirror on the vanity.

His breathing had begun to even out, but his shoulders still shook, hunched slightly. His nostrils flared as he resolutely held his own gaze, compelled – by what, he didn’t know – to stand his ground. His eyes… gods, those terrible eyes. Red, like a wound that festered deeply, darker by degrees as the color came closer to the pupils. Whitish lines fell like tear tracks from the corners of his eyes, down and across his cheek bones. As he grew nearer, unsure of when precisely his feet had begun to move him, he realized that he’d never taken the time to properly inspect himself, like this – and for good reason: it was hideous. He knew he was. But something, now, put those thoughts to the rear as his own eyes saw him for the first time.

The marks crossed his shoulders and chest like a mantle, cradled and curled around his ribs. Concentric, curving lines swept down his forearms, and under the peak of his ribs were markings in the shape of something like a keyhole. They flowed, followed the lines of his anatomy and correlated generally to the position of bones and joints. They looked almost ceremonial, or symbolic – not unlike the war paint Asgard’s warriors were said to have used during battles of old, and were still used, sometimes, during the celebration of especially bloody engagements.

The longer he looked – mouth fallen open to expose his teeth, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and a little panicked, with these crude marks that endured like a tiger’s stripes – the louder came a single word into his mind:

_Beast_.

Over and over, he heard it: _beast, beast, beast_ … a chant that grew in volume, made louder by the noxious twist of self-loathing and disgust, and suddenly his altercation with Strange was thrown into sharper relief.

What sort of creature would make him relive that? What wild-eyed, pitiless _animal_ –

Loki gripped the back of the chair in front of the vanity, finally dropping his eyes as his strength left him and his shoulders sagged. He had no patience for the tears that pricked his eyes, but they fell anyway. Shame and guilt fought for control over his thoughts but at some point reached an accord, and agreed to torment him both in equal measure.

This wasn’t what he had wanted, not for himself and not for Strange. He’d been angry – was still angry – at Strange for letting him make a fool of himself. Yes, he’d known the sorcerer had been hiding something; yes, he’d suspected he had been impeding Loki’s relationship with the Seidr. But all those tiny lies – the moments where Stephen would look at him appraisingly and make some comment about Loki being a powerful magic user, about his eventual reclamation of a power that Strange _knew_ was gone...

Even as he tried to reignite his anger at Strange, Loki was set upon yet again by the things he had seen in Stephen’s memory. All that death, over and over, in unceasing, unremitting agony… and Loki had insisted that he’d wanted to see it. Had _laughed_ about it. By the time he had been able to rouse Strange from his trance, the blue-grey storm of his eyes glazed and distant, there was nothing left in Loki but regret and… and _compassion_. He hadn’t planned on wrapping his arms around Strange when he’d returned to his body; it had just happened, like there was nothing else he could do, no way to fix what he’d broken.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Strange pushed him away. He shouldn’t have been surprised when, as Loki had tried to approach him again, Strange had sent him flying back with a burst of energy. Loki’s head had snapped back against the wall, acquainting his teeth with his bottom lip. He’d almost been grateful for the pain; at the very least it helped clear his thoughts enough to realize that he was not wanted and should leave.

A knock sounded at Loki’s door and he felt himself tense. Was it the wizard? Why was he here? Had he changed his mind – did he mean to tell Loki he was no longer welcome in the sanctum, after all? He halted his cascading thoughts by asking who was there. When Wong’s voice came in reply, Loki wasn’t certain whether the tugging feeling in his chest was relief or disappointment.

Cracking the door minutely, Loki stayed as far back in the shadows of his unlit chamber as possible. If Wong thought it odd, he gave no sign, only proffering a large plate over which was laid a ceramic cloche.

“Basil pork and udon noodles,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s bok choy and broccoli, and you must eat at least one of them.”

Loki hesitantly reached forward, doing his best to at least hide his fingernails as he accepted the plate.

“For whatever it’s worth,” Wong grumbled, eyes nowhere near Loki’s face, “food doesn’t care what color you are. Gets made all the same.”

_You’re welcome back in the kitchen,_ he didn’t say, but Loki heard it anyway.

“Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll… thank you.”

Wong nodded, stepped back and let Loki close the door.

It was delicious - of course it was. Loki wasn’t sure he would be able to rejoin Wong in the kitchen any time soon... but it did feel nice that he’d been given the option.


	16. In Our Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So... puberty?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I didn’t like the final scene as it was written, so I went in and did some editing!
> 
> Geas ("gesh"): a prohibition or inhibition
> 
> This is kind of a long one - but I hope the payoff is worth it ;)
> 
> *Be advised: slight TW in the end notes!*

More than a week went by before Loki saw Strange again, and in a great many ways this was a relief to him. In others, it was a bitter disappointment; the altercation in the rotunda had done little to dampen Loki’s appetite for the man’s presence (and more), though it seemed the likelihood of that appetite being satisfied was now more remote than ever. Even so, Shuri continued to insist on updates on Loki’s condition, and Wong made not-so-subtle remarks about wanting his sous chef back, and Loki realized that he may have accidentally made _friends_.

Despite having successfully neutralized and expelled the synthesized venom in short order, it seemed that Loki’s ordeal was not quite through. He slept more than he was awake, found himself quickly winded and often fatigued. Shuri chalked this up to further efforts by his body to mend itself, hypothesizing that his chronic lethargy would resolve over the next days or weeks.

Her hypothesis was proven correct, eventually. Not before the headaches started, though.

Wong identified them as “migraines,” citing Loki’s sensitivity to light and noise. Shuri concurred and began to observe his vitals remotely, remarking upon hormonal shifts that seemed to be rather more dramatic than what she supposed was ordinary. The triple-threat of poor sleep, hormonal imbalance, and a lot of pain seemed to reasonably account for Loki’s shortened temper and vacillating moods.

It was on a cold November afternoon that things went from bad to worse, the trees outside Loki’s window chafed to grey by the winter wind. A furious itch had taken up residence on Loki’s forehead, close to his hairline, and he had awoken with the taste of blood in his mouth. He spat reflexively, leaving a small, nauseating puddle of blood, saliva and, to his utter horror, a small collection of teeth on the floor. He found a watered-down bloodstain on his pillow right before he was struck with another splitting headache and that deep, _burning_ itch. He managed to get a message to Shuri before the pain and lingering exhaustion overcame him, and within minutes she was stepping through a spark-spitting portal and into Loki’s quarters.

“Headaches again?” she inquired softly, stopping short when she spotted the blood on his pillow and on the floor. “Loki, you’re bleeding –”

Bracing a hand on his forehead, Loki nodded as minutely as possible, the room swimming around him. “This itch,” he mumbled, scratching lightly at the heated, burning patches on his forehead – which only seemed to make them worse.

Shuri drew up a chair, settled into it before touching her fingers to Loki’s jaw and tilting his head up. “Open.”

There was no witty rejoinder for her, today; Loki simply didn’t have the strength. Retrieving a bead from her bracelet to serve as a flashlight, Shuri was unable to completely silence her startled gasp when she looked inside Loki’s mouth.

Her voice, when it came, was stilted, faltering. “Have your teeth always been… sharp?”

Loki’s eyes widened, offending his headache such that it began to scream. He rose unsteadily from his bed and nearly bowled Shuri over in his haste, managing to get to the vanity’s mirror before his legs could fail him. Leaning forward, he opened his mouth and found, to his terror, that he did indeed seem to possess some teeth that were sharper than he remembered. His upper and lower canines came to especially distinct points and were a few additional centimeters proud of his bloodied gumline. His chin was covered in a dark red smear, glistening where blood and saliva mingled. There were angry, purplish-red marks on the dark blue flesh of his lower lip; it appeared he had bitten himself in his sleep.

He looked… _feral_.

Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, nauseous in the whirling dark behind them, Loki whispered miserably, “What is happening to me?”

A warm, gentle hand came to his shoulder. “I don’t know,” Shuri admitted, “but I am going to help you find out.”

Some hours later – during most of which Shuri was blessedly able to bring Loki to a fitful slumber – Loki awoke to find not only Wakanda’s brightest scientist, but New York’s resident sorcerers at his bedside. Shuri was explaining something to the two men with the assistance of a projected holoscreen, and even her low susurrus was enough to make Loki’s ears ring.

“…just hormonal fluctuations. It’s possible that this is a collection of side-effects from the envenomation, but it seems more like his body is going through some kind of developmental process.”

Loki’s stomach lurched at the sound of Stephen’s voice. “What does that mean?”

_He sounds terrible,_ Loki noted with a prick of panic. His vision swam, too choppy to make out the details of the silhouettes that stood before him.

Shuri sighed. “If I had to hazard a guess… You say his glamour is more shapeshifting than illusion?”

“That’s right,” Wong said in a low tone.

“If he has been glamoured his entire life, then it’s possible that his Jotun form never had a chance to reach physical maturity.”

They were all speaking very quietly, but the lengthy silence that fell between them was music to Loki’s ears.

Strange’s baritone murmur broke it. “So… puberty?”

“Do gods _go_ through puberty?” Wong muttered.

“This one seems to be,” Shuri whispered. “We are somewhat out of our depth, here. Stephen?”

“Hm?”

“You are the medical doctor; I only play one on TV. Thoughts?”

A deep sigh. “Assuming that Asgardians and Jotnar are biologically close enough to humans for any of this to apply… we just need to weather it. Wait it out.”

“That’s it?”

Stephen’s voice arrived sharply in Loki’s ears. “What do you want from me, Wong?”

“Nothing, I just –”

“You asked for my opinion. I’ve given it.”

“ _Stephen_.”

Loki could _hear_ Stephen’s dismissive shrug. “There’s nothing else to do. We can manage symptoms, try to keep him comfortable – but this isn’t something I or anybody else can rush.”

“Might there be a magical –”

“ _No_ ,” Strange declared. Shuri and Wong hushed him, but he paid them little mind. “We’re not doing that, for any of a number of reasons: pick one. I don’t care which.”

Despite his tone, the steps he took were soft and the door clicked gently behind him. Loki kept his eyes closed.

Shuri spoke first, just the ghost of her voice. “How long has he been like this?”

“Nearly two weeks - ever since he got well enough to move around. Do you think it could be an effect of the venom?”

“It’s possible, but there’s no way to be certain. I might write it off if he was experiencing all of the same symptoms as Loki – but he isn’t.”

Wong hummed darkly. “Just the headaches and foul mood.”

It wasn’t long before sleep overcame Loki again, the voices growing fainter the further he fled from consciousness.

~*~

Horns.

He was growing _horns_.

The change came swiftly: one day he was cursing the infernal itching on his forehead, and three days later he’d awoken to an especially gruesome migraine and two sizeable projections of… bone? Keratin? They were hard, solid, and curved backwards – not unlike the helmet he’d once been so fond of, though the ones sprouting from his head weren’t nearly as long or tall. The skin at their bases was tender and inflamed, adorned with bluish-purple bruises that marked the boundary between the dark azure of his skin and the blue-grey of the ridged horns.

“I don’t think it was ever meant to progress like this,” Shuri was saying. “It’s trying to catch you up on hundreds of years of development all at once.”

“How do I make it _stop_?”

Shuri’s voice and gaze were steady, grounding. “You know that’s not the answer, little viper.”

Loki groaned, rattling his teeth and stoking the flames of pain that licked at him everywhere. His whole body ached – joints stiff, stomach unsteady, and his head felt like the center of a dying star. His gums bled only intermittently, now, but that was the only blessing Loki could count for himself.

“Is there a way to remove them?” he said thickly. There had been something of a learning curve, with his teeth; he’d bitten his tongue, lips and the insides of his cheeks so often that it sometimes became difficult to speak.

Shuri replied, “Even if there was, I don’t think that would be –”

“Please,” he said pitifully, all prideful compunctions long since fled. “I don’t want to live like this, not like…” He trailed off as a fresh wave of nausea crashed over him.

Shuri took Loki’s hand in hers, the warmth of her skin at once a balm and an irritant against the chill of his own. She was careful to avoid his fingernails, which had lengthened significantly. Attempts to cut them had thus far been met with howling pain, and now they stood a quarter of an inch past the edge of the nail bed and ended in blunt points.

“Loki,” she whispered, “I told you before: denying this part of you will only lead to further suffering. We must let this run its course.”

A flood of emotion threatened to spill over his eyes and drain from his mouth. “Look at me,” he said tremulously, holding up his hands and staring at his _claws_. “I’m a mon–”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that word,” Shuri commanded softly. “Looking different doesn’t make you any less of a person or more of a monster. You are the same now as you have ever been.”

Loki scoffed, even though doing so made it feel like something was drilling into his sinuses. She could say whatever she liked; Loki knew the truth. He’d always known something was wrong with him, and now his body confirmed his suspicion.

As the pain gradually dulled and he grew strong enough to keep down food and drink, Shuri and Wong seemed hopeful that Loki would feel better, soon. His hormones seemed to be leveling out, and Shuri said something about a reduction of inflammation. She commended him at every opportunity for his telling her honestly how he was feeling… but he would never tell her about the dreams.

They were clearer, crisper than any visions or imaginings he’d ever experienced – and they were all of Stephen.

They happened in the library, in his bed, the sanctum’s foyer and kitchen – everywhere Loki had spent any significant length of time in the months since he’d come to the sanctum. Every night it was the same: the press of cool lips on heated skin, the rush of blood in his ears, scraping teeth, frantic kisses, brutality and adoration. It wasn’t just the carnal nature of the dreams that left him painfully erect each morning; it was the sensory details that kept his mind _fixed_ on the scenes. He could taste the salt on the skin of Stephen’s neck and chest, feel his soft, sweat-damp hair between his fingers. Stephen flushed so prettily in Loki’s dreams, high in his cheeks and in a dusting of pink across his chest – and the _sounds_ …

No – no one could ever know about the dreams, least of all Strange. Loki _should_ still be mad at him. He _should_ hate him for his duplicity and disrespect. It was hard to do, when all Loki could think of was scarred fingers tracing the marks on his skin.

The raised tattoos on his face, arms and torso seemed more prominent as they days went on, blanching to a whitish-blue while the rest of his skin seemed to be growing darker. As their visual prominence increased, they seemed to become more sensitive, as well, such that wearing clothes of any kind was frequently enough to leave him a panting, groaning mess, baring his teeth and gnashing them against nothing.

He hung a towel over the vanity’s mirror.

~*~

Effects of sleep deprivation can include, but are not limited to, poor balance, irritability, high blood pressure, and, in Stephen’s case, violent hand tremors. That he was willing to channel dimensional energy into his hands to steady them as he worked, now, told him more about the depth of his feelings for Loki than any awkward flirting or furtive glances ever could.

To blame Loki for the flashbacks and hypervigilance that followed Stephen around like attentive hellhounds in the days after their encounter in the rotunda did not cross Stephen’s mind. There was no blame, here. Stephen Strange had post-traumatic stress disorder and managed it as well as he could – which was sometimes, admittedly, not very well. Knowing that the voices whispering all around him were hallucinations did nothing to quiet them, or to make their words less cutting. Understanding that his shortness of breath and chest pain were not symptoms of a heart attack, but rather the faulty reaction of his autonomic nervous system to a non-present threat, did nothing to quench the aching pain. And no amount of mindfulness or medication could convince him he wouldn’t die the instant he closed his eyes.

Every night, for as long as his strength held, Strange spent hours awake in astral form. After the first two days of intrusive memories and catatonic dissociation, he was able to scrape together enough sense during his moments of lucidity to gather the materials he would need to facilitate the upcoming manic episode: coffee, fat- and protein-heavy snacks, water with electrolytes, and books. Many, many books.

Stephen was a man of many talents, but teaching had never been one. He had been given a single team of residents, once, and never again. It was a non-issue once he had established himself as the most accomplished neurosurgeon on the east coast (in the country, really, but they didn’t publish things like that; fragile egos in that business). Suffice it to say that there are good reasons people tend to joke about a surgeon’s bedside manner.

His desk and floor were strewn with books about higher education, on the instruction of magic, and with notes from other sorcerers. He fully intended to extend an offer of instruction on the mystic arts to Loki; it seemed like the least he could do, after everything that had happened. Strange had meant what he’d said when he told Loki he was researching other avenues for restoring Loki’s lost abilities. So far, the way of the masters seemed his only option. According to Wong it seemed his Jotun heritage endowed him with some innate ice magic, but Stephen knew little about it and hedged a bet that Loki wouldn’t likely appreciate yoking his magical potential to a shape he despised.

Stephen’s lack of sleep was made rather worse when Loki began to call out for him as he dreamt. At first, Stephen thought it simply another auditory hallucination, but when astral space seemed to clench around him, herding him in the direction of the sound, that hypothesis was discarded. The trade-off for being able to work in astral space while his body slept was greater vulnerability to lower forms of magical coercion – in this case, the utterance of a name.

Names have power – this is true for most entities with access to the astral plane. A naming geas usually involved long stretches of deliberate, concentrated chanting, most effective in large groups (since the combined spiritual energy of a hundred cultists was greater than that of just one). A geas could also be successfully enforced by a single, magically-attuned entity dipping their toes into astral space as they dreamt. This seemed to be the nature of the force that pulled Strange’s projection through the sanctum’s walls, and that dumped him carelessly into the chair next to Loki’s bed.

Strange shook himself, surveying the room. He was still in astral form, but his molecules seemed to have entangled with the seat of the chair in a way they hadn’t with the walls. He searched his mind’s catalogue for an explanation, but only got as far as the E’s before he noticed very suddenly that he’d found Loki in a… compromised, position.

Stephen had never had a lump in his astral throat before. It felt about the same as having a lump in his physical throat, except now there was no biological explanation for why he gave in to the urge to swallow when he saw that Loki was masturbating in his sleep.

Strange pressed his eyes shut and took a moment to center himself. He’d been in the middle of a breakthrough with a batch of notes from a Kamar-Taj graduate, and now, suddenly, here he was, next to Loki, who was asleep in his bed, tenting his blanket obscenely as his voice called out, low and heated –

“Stephen…”

Strange pressed weary palms to his eyes. This could not be happening. He was imagining this – he’d finally snapped. How long had he been at this? Days? A week? He wasn’t sure, but that wasn’t the point: if he was hallucinating this vividly while _astral_ , then he needed to seriously consider –

“Stephen, please…”

His hands fell from his eyes. Yep, this was happening.

This could _not_ be happening.

It continued to happen for the next week. Stephen slept for three hours a night, lived on caffeine and Gatorade and yogurt bars, and spent his every waking moment searching not only for the information he would need for Loki’s tutoring (if he would accept it), but also a means of quietly disrupting the geas Loki had accidentally put on him. Stephen didn’t want to embarrass him – it would have to be discreet. But the idea of doing anything magical to Loki without his consent proved a bridge too far for Stephen’s delicate mental state, teetering as it was between the twin perils of mental and physical exhaustion.

He couldn’t resist the pull of Loki’s voice in his astral form any more than he could deny his patellar reflex, or tell his heart to pump blood backwards. But if he slept for too long in his body, the nightmares came, and it was very hard to escape from those.

So now, on top of everything, Stephen awoke each day from his uneasy sleep to a raging boner, fostered by the whimpers and moans of the night before. He’d finally found the wards he needed – felt good about applying them to his room and study, so he could go back to working through the nights in peace. But there was a part of him, a bad, terrible part of Stephen Strange, that very much did not want these nocturnal bedside visits to end. He craved with a perverse, greedy hunger to know what Loki was seeing, to see his own hands on Loki’s body, smoothing over blue skin and tracing each of his raised markings with his fingers and tongue.

He knew it was wrong before he did it. But he was so, so tired, and so very badly in need of release. Of _this_ release.

Strange had no trouble sidling up to Loki’s consciousness and peeking behind its curtain, masking his presence and keeping to the outskirts of Loki’s mind. What he saw was simultaneously wondrous and gut-wrenching: the depth of Loki’s desire appeared endless. Every single night a new location, a new position, a different pet name – nothing stayed the same for long.

Stephen’s voyeurism came to an end when he saw himself bend Loki over the dining room table and _take_ him – brutal, passionate and messy. It was practically identical to one of the fantasies he’d long harbored, and that was just… He couldn’t do this, _shouldn’t_ be doing this. It was too much, and Loki was his _friend_ – or, at least, Stephen wanted him to be.

_A home is somewhere you feel safe, cared for – surrounded by people you can trust. Does that sound right, to you?_

Stephen managed to get the wards working.

~*~

Thor tried to visit Loki twice in a fortnight, and each time the anxious pit in Loki’s stomach spilled over with self-reproach and sorrow.

He couldn’t remember a single time in his life that he’d _wanted_ to see Thor more than he did now – now that they weren’t in competition for the throne, for power on either side of a cosmic war, and it was only the nature of their fraternity that caused Loki grief.

He recalled their stint on Sakaar, all the times Thor had taken Loki back after a scathing betrayal. Thor didn’t _have_ to keep coming here, trying to see him. He could just as easily spend his time with his Avengers, or in New Asgard.

There was no denying that Thor cared for him, but he was Asgardian through and through, and Asgard had despised Jotunheim for eons unnumbered. Odin’s most celebrated battles were waged against the frost giants; songs were sung about his conquest and the subjugation of a race of savage, endlessly proliferating monsters. And Loki was, more clearly than ever, one of _them_.

The third time Thor came to see him, Loki felt sick as he asked Wong, through the door, to tell his brother that he wasn’t well enough to receive visitors. When Wong portaled into his room minutes later, he made no secret of Thor’s disappointment (or his valiant efforts to hide it). This time, though, Thor had left him something – a small, carved totem.

A great deal of whale ivory, seized by Norwegian port authorities, had been surrendered to the residents of New Asgard some weeks ago under the auspices of a coalition for cultural reclamation (or some such title; Loki had little patience for Midgard’s love affair with convoluted naming conventions). It was to be used to commemorate what had been lost and what had been saved when Asgard burned, devoted to the production of culturally relevant handicrafts.

Turning Thor’s totem over in his hands, Loki recognized it as a scrimshaw not unlike the ones Njord, who oversaw matters of the sea, had been fond of turning when he and Thor were children. Carved into the bone were small protective runes, the likeness of a wolf, and two serpents intertwined in something of a double-S, each biting the tail of the other. Delicate work such as this had never been Thor’s forte. He must have put a lot of time into it…

When Wong finished his tale, he said, “I know you don’t want my advice, but your brother is a good man. He cares about you. He can look past –”

“All the love in the world cannot undo millennia of prejudice,” came Loki’s dejected mumble as he sat on his bed, turning the scrimshaw over in his blue-and-black hands. “Asgard is not a place, but a people – and those people _hate_ Jotunheim and the Jotnar. The only reason I could ever walk among them was that I looked like them.” The mirror was still covered, but Loki knew what he looked like now: sharp teeth, red eyes, two prominent horns, and lines like ritual scars burnt into dark blue skin.

Wong sat in the chair across from Loki. “Is that what you want?”

Loki blinked. “Is ‘what,’ what I want?”

“To ‘walk among them’ again.”

The tender flesh at the base of Loki’s horns stung when he frowned. “I’m not sure, but it’s rather a moot point, isn’t it?” He explored one of the grooves in the ivory with the tip of a blackened fingernail. “I no longer have the power to glamour myself, and this is apparently just…” – he swallowed the lump in his throat – “… just the way I am, now.”

Wong was scowling, but it didn’t seem to be directed at Loki. “I hesitate to suggest this,” he grumbled, “mainly because of what Strange was doing, but…” He clicked his tongue, and eventually met Loki with a look of trepidation. “I can make an illusion charm for you. It won’t be anything like Strange’s; he was trying to approximate the method of your magic as closely as possible, which meant that there was a shapeshifting element to his spell.” He shook his head with a sour look. “I’d be impressed, if not for… well.”

Loki traced the lines of the totem, lingering over the entwined serpents. “Yes,” he muttered absently, “I, um… shall I… can I give it some thought?”

Wong nodded curtly. “You know where to find me,” he said, conjuring and stepping through a portal that led to the dining room.

~*~

It was in the middle of a dream that the first of Loki’s nightmares began.

Loki straddled Stephen’s lap on a sofa in one of the sanctum’s reading rooms, the pair of them locked in an ardent kiss. Stephen’s hands – untrembling – traced the lines over Loki’s chest, his arms and stomach, and Loki would realize later than this was the first fantasy in which he retained his Jotun appearance. Stephen was saying something, gasping and growling as Loki worked his teeth over his neck, a delicate scrape that failed to draw blood but that did leave angry, satisfying red lines along the column of Stephen’s throat. _Dexterity, control, restraint…_

Loki shuddered as warm hands fell to his back, then lower, pulling him insistently against the bulge in Stephen’s pants.

“Excited, are we?” Loki hummed, baring his teeth in a wide grin and looking down his nose at Strange. A thrill passed through him at the command in his voice and the answering heat in Stephen’s gaze.

“Come on, Loki,” he pleaded, “don’t be a tease. I’ve needed this for so long.”

Loki’s hand fisted in Stephen’s hair, pulling back for better access to his neck. “How long?” Loki growled, biting and sucking at Stephen’s delicate flesh.

“I – I don’t know,” Strange said breathlessly, thumbing over the crests of Loki’s hips.

Stephen’s skin was sweet under Loki’s tongue. “You know you have to do better than that, darling,” he purred, ghosting his lips over the delicate spot beneath Stephen’s ear. He’d seen him touching it when he was deep in concentration or attending to a complex problem. Perhaps it calmed him or helped him focus – all Loki knew was that it was _sensitive_ and drawing these helpless, needing whimpers out Stephen was what he _lived_ for.

From there the dream grew hazy, individual words lost amidst gasps and moans and sighs of relief, the twining of their bodies so thorough and long-lasting that, by the time they both reached their peaks, it was difficult to tell where one of them ended and the other began.

As they sat basking in the afterglow, Stephen murmured something Loki couldn’t quite make out. When he lifted his head from Stephen’s shoulder to ask him to repeat it, he was horrified to find that the person sitting beneath him was no longer Stephen.

With a harsh cry, _Thor_ shoved Loki out of his lap. Loki expected to land on the coffee table behind him, but instead sent up a cloud of dusty, dark sand when he fell to the ground. He was on the home planet of the dark elves, splayed out in the dead soil. Thor, fully clothed and with a white-knuckled grip on a reformed Mjolnir, stalked slowly towards him.

“Brother,” Loki said, getting his arms up behind him and backing away. “What are you doing?” The bases of his horns ached terribly.

Thor’s voice was thunderous, his expression clouded with rage. “This whole time,” he fumed, “a frost giant has been hiding in my home, _poisoning_ it.” He hefted Mjolnir in his hand with a leer so menacing Loki knew it couldn’t really be him – but that did little to assuage his terror. “Today, I put an end to you.”

“Thor – brother, wait,” Loki cried, stumbling to his feet. He raised his hands in supplication, but Thor took one look at his blue flesh and long, black claws and scowled menacingly.

“No more of your lies,” Thor roared, advancing as Loki retreated. “You have been plotting the fall of Asgard for years, _false friend_.”

“Thor, you know that’s not true –”

“You bore no love for my mother or father – it is because of _you_ that they are dead.”

Loki shook his head, willing this to go away.

“And now,” Thor declared, “I send you to Helheim, _monster_.”

Loki’s eyes stung fiercely. “You don’t want to do this, Thor,” he wailed. “You’re my _brother!_ ”

“ _You are no brother of mine!”_

Loki shuddered awake just as Mjolnir drew down a bolt of lightning, whiting out his vision. He shot up in bed, pressing an attentive hand to his forehead to preclude the headache he knew would be coming. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but applying pressure between his horns seemed to make the pain a little more bearable.

“Are you alright?”

Loki jumped, pressing his back against the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape of Stephen Strange materialized in the chair beside his bed, glinting with the last vestiges of teleportation. The door to his bedroom remained closed, a warm streak of light leaking in from the gap between it and the floorboards.

“What…” Loki trailed off, steadying his breathing before he went on, “what are you doing, here?”

Strange’s expression was illegible in the low light, but if his voice was anything to go by the man was haggard and… unhappy. “I heard you yelling,” he murmured, “sounded like a dream you didn’t want to be in. I came to wake you up.”

Loki held his own arms, stroking his fingers absently along the markings there. It was as he held himself and tried to think of something to say in reply that he realized this was the first time he and Strange had both been conscious and in the same room together since their ill-fated rendezvous in the rotunda. Despite his fresh distress, Loki’s body began to react to Stephen’s presence immediately, noting with hunger that his real smell was so, _so_ much better than Loki had ever been able to imagine. He was in sleeping clothes – soft pants and an oversized shirt, and he smelled of soap and clean skin and the warm rush of magic.

“Well,” Stephen muttered after a moment, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’d best be going.”

Before he could think better of it, Loki’s hand shot out and took hold of Strange’s wrist. He tensed immediately, gently resisting, but not enough to break Loki’s hold.

The words spilled from Loki’s mouth: “Don’t go.” He sounded pathetic and small and _needy_ and he didn’t care – he just needed Stephen to stay. “I don’t want to be alone,” he confessed weakly. “Please, don’t leave.”

There was silence in the dark room for long moments.

The tension drained out of Strange slowly, the shadow of his shoulders falling with a quiet sigh. “Okay,” he whispered, reseating himself at Loki’s bedside.

Loki mumbled his thanks, running his fingers through his hair to try and bring it into some semblance of order. It didn’t matter that Strange probably couldn’t see it; it was the principle of the thing. Something inside of Loki was telling him to _preen_ , and he didn’t know why and didn’t have the energy to investigate it now.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Strange said awkwardly.

Loki propped himself up on an elbow, resting his head on his hand. “Not particularly,” he admitted.

Stephen nodded and didn’t pry.

“Can you…” Loki cleared his throat. “Can you tell me…”

The silhouette of Strange’s head dipped down. “Tell you, what?”

“Just… anything,” he finished lamely. “I just want to think about something else.”

Strange was silent for so long Loki feared he might be giving a tacit refusal. After a minute or two, though, he began to speak. “I played baseball with a demon, once.”

Loki managed to laugh without making himself bleed. “You did not.”

“I did,” Stephen assured him, voice thick with what might have been sleep. “Do you even know what baseball is?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

Stephen retrieved a phone from his pocket and queued up a video. In the whitish-blue light of the screen, the dark circles and deep lines under and around Stephen’s eyes were made starker. Loki waited for the phone to go away and the darkness to return before he asked of Stephen, “Are you alright?”

That tension returned. “I’m fine,” he said mildly.

It was a statement, more than an accusation: “You’re lying.”

Stephen’s laugh was so sad Loki felt that it deserved some other name, but he didn’t know of one. “Alright: I’m tired.”

Loki knew he was pressing his luck. “What more than that?”

Silent darkness was his only answer until Strange said, in a voice that carried a defeated lilt, “I’ve been having… dreams, lately.”

There was an anxious tug in Loki’s gut. “What sort of dreams?”

Stephen was fidgeting, rubbing his fingers and pressing them into his palms. “The same kind you’ve been having.”

There was an instant drop in the air temperature; Loki felt himself blanche and saw Strange shiver bodily.

“W-what do you mean, by…?” Loki stammered.

“You call out for me,” Stephen murmured, breath fogging in the air between them. It felt like they were apart from the rest of the world, alone in their own private reality. “In your sleep, you… you say my name, and names have –”

“Names have power,” Loki finished, voice faint. “I, I’m sorry, I never thought…”

“It’s fine,” Stephen said, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re going through…” He huffed. “Your body is rushing through sexual maturation – it’s perfectly natural for you to feel…” His arms gestured vaguely in the darkness between them.

Something carnivorous inside of Loki questioned that observation. “For me to feel, what?” He felt he knew the answer, but something told Loki that by his tone Strange was endeavoring to communicate something else.

“It’s not personal,” Strange said, his attempt at casual lost in its taut undertone. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, that I’m the one you see. Dreams, fantasies like that – they’re not an indication of romantic feeling. Your brain takes the faces you’re most familiar with and throws them into this… surge of hormones.” He sounded relieved, once he’d gotten it all out, and leaned back in the chair like he was proud of the work he’d done.

Something harsh and angry swelled in Loki’s chest as he grasped the implication. He sat up slowly, bringing his feet to the floor and squaring up with Strange.

“Is that what you think?” Loki said, voice canted low. “That I’m some sort of rutting animal, eager to mount anything passing by?”

“That is _not_ what I said, and it’s _not_ what I meant,” Strange warned.

“Then please, by all means, don’t let me keep you from saying what you mean.”

Strange had a way of breathing out harshly through his nose when he was frustrated. “All I mean is, just because we’re sharing a dream in which we have sex, doesn’t mean that… I’m not making anything of it, okay? I don’t think that you actually feel that way about me.”

Loki’s stomach turned as he prepared a retort, but he stopped shy of delivering it.

“How long?” he asked instead.

“How long, what?”

Loki felt his hands grip the edge of the mattress. “How long have you been _spying_ on my dreams?”

Strange made an unhappy noise. “I’m not _spying_ on you, Loki – you say my name, out loud, and I can’t –”

“Fine, then: how long have you been a willing participant in them?”

“It doesn’t work like that, I’m not actually –”

“Because from where I’m sitting,” Loki bit out, “it seems that you’ve been avoiding speaking with me for weeks while I’m awake, but you have no qualms about _passing time_ together in a dream.”

“Loki, can we not do this, please?”

Why did that make Loki so viciously angry? “Do what, Stephen?” He caught the snag in Strange’s breathing at the sound of his name, tucked that away for later. “Inquisit your reasons for appearing in my chambers in the middle of the night to ‘rescue’ me from a nightmare?”

Strange sagged in his seat, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t win,” he mumbled wearily. “No matter what I do, there’s no winning with you, is there?”

Loki ignored him in favor of voicing another epiphany: “Did you shape the dream?”

He could hear Strange’s incredulous frown. “What? No, why would you –”

“It’s not like you don’t have a track record for this sort of thing,” Loki explained snidely. “Using your magic to control me, lying to me for… for what?” He laughed, a little hysterically. “What do you hope to gain, here? My confidence? My affection?”

“This was a mistake,” Strange said quietly, rising to his feet. “I’m sorry for intruding; it won’t happen again. I’ll ward my room against… so that I don’t hear it.”

As Stephen disappeared into the wall, Loki was torn between the part inside of him that gave a forlorn howl at his departure, and the part that worried he might actually have cut the man’s heart out, if he had stayed.

**~*~**

In the end, Loki went to him.

In the light of day, the thought crossed Loki’s mind that he had perhaps been too… coarse, with Strange. His intentions may very well have been good – he had apologized, resolved to be truthful, and despite Loki’s firm conviction that he had every right to be upset with Strange, this was presently an untenable state of affairs. He couldn’t stay mad forever, and if he didn’t made amends, he would never have the chance to see if there was something to these… feelings, he had. That Strange might share.

_I care about you, okay?_

Loki worried over the scrimshaw in the pocket of his coat as he made for the study, rolling it between his fingers and feeling along its runes. Wong had speedily granted Loki’s request that he proceed with embedding an illusion charm into the totem; if he kept it within reach, Loki could retrieve or dismiss it as he liked. It felt quite different from the glamour Strange had been maintaining, a little like having a pesky but harmless strand of hair that kept falling in his eyes.

The reunion in the study was awkward, at first, as Stephen was – perhaps understandably – rather guarded. Once Loki had finally spat out the apology he knew he owed him, the shadows beneath the sorcerer’s eyes seemed to thin, if only a little. The lines of his exhaustion re-creased themselves when Loki broached the subject of what seemed to be their mutual attraction, however – but this had gone on long enough.

Loki spread his arms beseechingly. “Just tell me, sorcerer.” He hesitated only a moment before correcting himself: “Stephen.”

All the fatigue in the world would have been insufficient to completely dampen the flash in Strange’s eyes.

Loki took slow steps forward. “Stephen,” he said again, tipping his head indulgently, “if you felt nothing for me, you would have said as much and ended this conversation minutes ago.”

Strange’s lips were pressed into a hard line as he retreated behind his desk. “I already told you that I care about you,” he said casually, pretending to organize his notes. “It’s not like I’m trying to keep it a secret.”

Loki hummed, pressing forward until he could settle his fingers on the desk’s polished surface. He took a quiet moment to revel in the beauty of his hands – pale, unblemished – and to repress the part of him that wondered if Strange had always smelled this good, that wanted to get closer to know for sure. No – this was a delicate matter. If he played his cards right, Loki would become very well-acquainted with the smell, taste, and feel of the sorcerer in the near future.

He placed his bet: “What if I were to tell you that it’s not an accident that it’s you, I see in my dreams? That I’d thought about you like this for quite some time before the venom… incident?”

Stephen’s hands stilled in their work, sought the stability of the desktop as he refused to meet Loki’s eyes. _Wait for it…_

A nearby bookshelf suddenly seemed to fascinate Strange. “If you _were_ to tell me that,” he said slowly, “I would probably say something about it being irresponsible of us to…”

With the grace of a prowling cat Loki arrived at Stephen’s back, close enough to touch. Strange glanced over his shoulder, eyes caught on the space behind him as he mumbled, “… to…”

Loki always _had_ enjoyed playing with fire. Slowly, deliberately, he laid a finger on the back of Strange’s neck, just above his collar, and traced down his spine.

“We are both adults,” Loki said reasonably, “consenting, informed…”

“You’re my guest,” Strange said flatly, retrieving a book and pretending to consider its contents. “Pretty sure there are rules against that, somewhere.”

Loki scoffed, lifting his finger before its journey down Strange’s spine brought it to the waist of his pants. Strange made a valiant effort to suppress his shudder, but Loki saw it anyway.

He leaned forward, saying in Strange’s ear, “I find rules tedious.”

Loki saw the hair on the back of Stephen’s neck stand on end. “Rules exist for a reason,” Strange said with no conviction.

The final gambit: Loki let his breath ghost across Stephen’s skin as he said, sultry and low, “Let me show you how much fun it can be to break them.”

Mere minutes later saw Loki seated atop Strange’s desk with Stephen standing between his thighs, one arm wrapped behind Loki’s back while the other tangled itself in his long, dark hair. Their first kiss was hard, stiff-lipped, but soon enough Stephen surrendered. Loki parted his lips in invitation, and Stephen accepted with great enthusiasm. His tongue found its way to the front of Loki’s mouth and Loki sucked on it gently, hoping to encourage further exploration. Instead, and to what seemed to be the great disappointment of both parties, Stephen pulled back to rest his forehead gently against Loki’s.

“We should stop,” Strange said, breathless.

“Maybe,” Loki growled, hooking his fingers into Stephen’s belt loops, “but do you really want to?”

Loki kissed him, swallowed down whatever half-hearted objection Strange was about to make. He was careful at first, mindful of Wong’s warning that the illusion charm didn’t change Loki’s physical form – but even to his own tongue Loki’s teeth felt rather harmless, a revelation he put to use by nipping at Stephen’s lower lip.

Stephen produced a pained moan when Loki’s hand moved to the front of his jeans, palming over the length of him and giving an appreciative squeeze.

“Loki,” Stephen groaned, “we _can’t_ , I –”

“I think you’ll find that we can,” Loki countered, working at Stephen’s belt as he threaded his other hand into his hair, turning his head to deepen the kiss. The button and fly of Stephen’s pants were short work for Loki, leaving him free to stroke Stephen through only one of his layers. The tortured moan he produced in response set something alight in Loki, a ravenous energy that brought him back to mouth at Stephen’s neck, to taste the blood that rushed beneath his skin.

Strange’s hips gave what felt like an involuntary thrust into Loki’s hand. Stephen was very nearly panting with want, pressed so close – and he yet resisted. “You could… what if you regret it?” he managed.

Loki bit down on Strange’s earlobe and felt him throb in his hand. “I won’t.”

“ _Loki_ ,” Strange ground out, and to Loki’s immense dismay his arms relinquished their grip on Loki’s body and hair to hold him firmly by the arms. There was no way Loki could in good conscience ignore this firmer protest and so, with a sigh, he withdrew his hand from Stephen’s jeans.

“Listen to me,” Strange insisted. “If we do this now, you’re going to convince yourself that the only reason I’m teaching you magic is that we’re sleeping together.”

Loki opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut as his eyes flew wide. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

With a lingering look and a reaffirming squeeze on Loki’s arms, Strange took a half step back and set to work righting his pants and belt. “I _was_ going to ask you,” he said, “before you barged in.”

Loki’s eyes were flitting across Stephen’s face, assessing. “Go back a moment – what’s this about teaching magic?”

“No,” Strange drawled with a sardonic smile. “No, now you’re going to have to wait. I’ve spent nearly every night in the past two weeks awake, in the astral plane, figuring this out. I may be the most powerful sorcerer on the planet and a former neurosurgeon, but teaching is outside my wheelhouse.”

Loki sat on the desk, unspeaking. Stephen indulged himself and stepped up, scrutinized Loki’s face before leaning in and brushing their lips together. “If you want this,” he rumbled, “then you can wait for it.”

The astuteness of Strange’s observation was not lost on Loki, who considered just how well Strange had come to know him. He smoothed his hair and said something to the effect that he would consider permitting Strange to “share his knowledge, rudimentary as it may be.” Loki was not a patient man… but, perhaps this once, he could stand to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for pushy kissing and not immediately stopping when someone says “we should stop”. In this particular instance, I’m running with the “but they’re both not-so-secretly into this” rationalization, with assistance from “‘no’ = ‘definitely later’” elements.


	17. Bite Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a good training montage?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! There's a bit of a style/tone shift here, mainly for content reasons but also because I think we've hurt these boys enough, for a little while. A good friend told me that I might want to consider letting them have a little fun, sprinkle in some "comfort" with all the "hurt" - and I'm a merciful god.
> 
> Our weekly research topic is "rib subluxation"! Turns out, it IS possible to "dislocate" a rib. The more you know!

“Dear me, Thor – you’ve become something of a blubbering mess in my absence, haven’t you?”

Thor swiped at his eyes, a defensive quaver in his voice as he said, “Am I not allowed to express the love I bear for my brother? Whom I haven’t seen in… in…”

“It’s been only a month.”

“It was quite a bit longer before that,” Thor wetly protested, “and I thought you were _dead_.”

Loki smirked, fidgeting with the scrimshaw in his pocket. After only a few days of using the charm Loki found that it rankled him rather more than he had initially thought. What had at first seemed a minor annoyance, like the circling of a persistent insect, grew stronger the longer he kept it on – until it felt like an entire swarm was buzzing around his face. For this reason, he’d taken to leaving it off while he was alone, and had reactivated it when Thor arrived.

Thor hugged him yet again, and Loki acted as though he was only begrudgingly hugging back. In truth, he was so relieved to see Thor he had at first worried that he might cry – but that was out of the question. He was prepared to acknowledge that he loved Thor, but to cry before him? Such a display would be… Well, it would be completely unacceptable, wouldn’t it?

Loki shook himself, swallowing down the lump in his throat and holding back the tears that sought to defy him. These mood swings were rather more inconvenient than Loki had at first thought ( _a lot of that going around,_ he mused darkly). He’d seldom ever made a poorer show of controlling his emotions, and it was starting to grate on him.

At last, and to Loki’s relief, Thor let him go, holding him at arm’s length, tears proudly on display on his cheeks and in his beard as he smiled. It wasn’t at all fair that Thor failed to appear weak or discomposed while weeping.

“Now, brother,” Thor said as he sat down across from Loki in what he’d come to think of as the Visitors’ Chair, “You shall tell me everything of your time here.”

A bolt of dread pierced Loki’s chest. “No, no,” he said – perhaps a little too quickly, if Thor’s momentary look of surprise was any indication. “You go first. How is… home?”

The word fit ill in Loki’s mouth, but Thor’s expression grew so bright he could stand to ignore its bitter taste. “Strong heads and short tempers abound, as always,” he said jovially, “among those in New Asgard who wish to shape our community.”

“So you fit right in, then?”

Thor struck an indignant pose. “Brother, you _wound_ me.”

“Go on, then.”

“The new king is well-loved, despite her temper and propensity for drink.”

That brought a true laugh out of Loki. “Do you not mean ‘because’ of her temper and love of drink? Asgard cannot truly have changed so much in so short a time.”

Thor guffawed, and it was so utterly guileless that Loki was for a minute drawn in, laughing quietly himself. He had forgotten how much sunshine the god of thunder could bring with him, on a fair day.

His attempts at deflection bought Loki only a temporary respite, and before long Thor was saying, “Enough of me, brother – tell me what you do here. You look very well!”

Loki smiled, but he couldn’t feel it in his eyes. “Yes, thank you, I’ve been…” The words died on his tongue. “Strange has been helping me, with…” _This is hopeless,_ he lamented internally. There was no way he could keep this from Thor. At some point between now and when he’d woken up, Loki had become a terrible liar.

Thor’s curious eye sought Loki’s. “Are you all right?”

Loki’s breath went out in a rush. “Yes – well, no, not really. It’s just…” He stood, running his hands through his hair. Wong’s illusory charm softened his edges, but it couldn’t completely mask the presence of his horns. Their ridges had grown rougher and the furrows deeper as time went by, and when Loki moved his arm too hastily, his sleeve became snagged on the point of one of them. A prickle of panic scuttled across his shoulders and down his spine as Loki tried and failed to free himself.

And so it was that Thor turned to look at his brother, only to find him with his arm out at an odd angle as its sleeve was caught up in empty air.

Thor wasn’t stupid, no matter what Loki told himself or anyone else. Those blue eyes were narrowed not in confusion, but calculation.

Loki struggled only a few moments before he gave up and looked at Thor guiltily. Rather than try to come up with an excuse – at which he would certainly fail – Loki said, “Please, don’t be angry.” He recalled with painful clarity the way Thor had looked at him in his nightmare.

Thor’s laugh was startled, a little confused. “Loki, why would I be angry with you?”

Loki closed his eyes, took the scrimshaw in his free hand, and dispelled the charm.

It was a relief, like taking his boots off after marching for hours, or the first shower after going much too long without one. He watched as his skin flushed blue, his marks a lighter shade where they circled and ran along his frame. The image was complete only with the addition of his red, red eyes, and the horns – one of which was caught on Loki’s sleeve.

Thor was impossible to read as he stood up, though he didn’t seem to be fearful or disgusted. Loki couldn’t help that he flinched when Thor made as if to move in his direction. With a narrow frown that looked more like curiosity than anything, Thor reached forward, taking hold of Loki’s trapped arm and gently pulling his sleeve free of his horn. Loki wanted to thank him, but couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth.

“There is a stone,” Thor said, his voice a little rough as he gingerly inspected Loki’s hand, “in New Asgard – carnelian, I believe it’s called. Rather pretty.” He smiled – Thor _smiled_ – at Loki. “Your eyes put me in mind of it.”

Loki wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been _that_. “You don’t –” Loki cleared his throat and tried again: “You don’t think it’s… doesn’t it bother you?”

Thor looked at Loki as if he were the simplest creature under the sun. “Of course not, Loki, why would it?”

Loki was feeling a little blind-sided, here. “Because your father led a campaign of genocide against Jotunheim,” he said, his exasperation plain. “I am a _frost giant_ , Thor. That doesn’t bother you?”

Thor was shaking his head, his voice plaintive and a little harsh as he said, “You are my _brother_ , Loki. I care not if you choose to spend your days as a dog, or a fish, or a mare – you will never stop being my brother.” He let Loki take back his hand. “No matter how hard you might try to convince me otherwise,” he finished, a little sadly.

They spoke. They laughed. They both agreed that neither of them had ever cried. And as their time together drew to a close and the sun began to set, Loki revealed to Thor all that Strange had been teaching him.

“A generous prize for good behavior,” Thor agreed with an appraising look. “I am glad the sorcerer sees in you what others sometimes can’t.” As they reached the door to Loki’s chamber, Thor turned and laid a hand on Loki’s shoulder.

“Change has been in the air since before Asgard was lost,” he said gently. “This is a time of renewal, of rediscovery. The old order is changing, escaping from the shackles of its traditions. There is room for reinterpretation.” Thor squeezed. “Asgard is not a place.”

“It is a people, yes, I know.”

“And they are _our_ people,” Thor said.

Loki didn’t reply.

~*~

“This power isn’t so different from the one you’re used to.”

Strange and Loki knelt in front of each other in a private chamber in Kamar-Taj. It was a nice change of scenery; Stephen felt its atmosphere was better suited than the sanctum to the work they were doing today. Afternoon sun was scattered into the air around them by gently drifting motes of dust. It was just where Stephen had once knelt before the Ancient One, as she had demonstrated the same pattern of sigils he now conjured for Loki.

“We harness energy drawn from other dimensions of the Multiverse,” Strange said, dropping his voice low into his chest as he drew luminous strands together in the empty air. “To cast spells.” He punctuated his statement with the flash of a completed symbol. “To conjure shields, and weapons.” The motion of his hands sent some of the nested sigils turning inside each other. He paused only a moment before thinking, _what the hell, why not?_

“To make _magic_.” With a sharp motion, the spinning, glowing angles of the mandala pulsed and snapped, resonating impressively before dissipating.

Strange suppressed a satisfied smile as Loki watched some of the spell’s golden embers float and vanish. He completely understood, now, why the Ancient One had initiated him this way. The symbols were ubiquitous among the masters’ somatic iconography; the arrangement in this demonstration did nothing more than call the energy needed to cause a small draft – all for show. It took virtually no effort, but it looked good and it was _fun_.

Loki was quick to school his expression when he realized Strange was watching. The comfortable gloom imparted by sunlight through dust lent a dull cast to the grey-blue of his horns, but did little to diminish the markings on his face and arms. “Am I meant to be impressed?” he drawled, affecting disinterest.

Strange’s smirk grew a little sour. “It would’ve been nice.”

Loki scoffed at him, red eyes turning skyward. “Enough of these tedious exercises – when are you going to teach me anything of import?”

“We crawl before we walk,” Strange replied, raising his voice to be heard over Loki’s dramatic groan, “and we walk before we run. You can’t expect to jump into the deep end when you’ve only just begun.”

“You’re mixing metaphors,” Loki declared, pointing an accusatory finger, “ _and_ missing the point. I am a magical practitioner hundreds of years your elder. I’ve been weaving spells since before your tiny race harnessed _electricity_. The kinds of magic I can weave would turn that pretty head of yours,” he finished with a sly smile. The smile faltered briefly when his eyes alighted on the hand he had been using to point at Stephen, bringing it back to his lap and looking pointedly anywhere else.

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to pretend,” he said slowly, “that you didn’t say that. Because if I don’t, then I fear I’d say something we’d both regret.”

“Like what?”

Stephen waited with Loki’s full attention. “Like, ‘how’s that working out for you?’.”

Loki grimaced, but it turned into a smile – white teeth, pink tongue, blue lips. “Fair enough,” he conceded.

Stephen was feeling merciful, so he let the matter drop. “Try to remember what it felt like when you reached for the Seidr,” he said. “Start there, and we’ll course-correct as needed. I’ll show you the basic somatic forms.”

They went through a series of stretches, gestures and movements that helped attune the body and mind to the energy the masters harnessed to work their spells. Loki at first lamented yet another rudimentary lesson but became silent when Stephen stepped forward to adjust his stance.

Strange nudged his student’s foot into position as his hand held him steady by the arm. “Point your toes outward, like this.”

His manipulation of Loki’s limbs was clinical, detached. Interestingly, as their time together went on, Loki seemed to be _losing_ his grip on the exercises. He put the wrong foot forward, didn’t center himself or lower his center of gravity as instructed. Each time Stephen stepped in, made an adjustment of Loki’s legs or arms or posture, it took a little more effort, a little more coaxing to get it right. By the time they had gotten to their fifth form, it almost seemed like Loki was _trying_ to get them wrong.

Stephen blinked. _Ah._

Understanding his student’s obstinance somewhat differently, now, Stephen stepped in close as Loki stood in a hopelessly bastardized warrior’s pose, left arm askew and right foot stretched clumsily behind him. Stephen matched Loki’s stance, lining up their legs and hips and laying his arm forward to palm over blue fingers. Loki barely suppressed a shudder and couldn’t at all hide the catch in his breath as Stephen traced his thumb along the marks on the back of Loki’s hand.

“You know,” Stephen rumbled in his ear, “for someone with hundreds of years of magical experience, I’ve got to say I’m surprised this is so difficult for you to grasp.”

Despite the shortness of his breath and the way he was leaning into Stephen’s touch, Loki held his head high. “Well,” said carelessly, “I suppose you were right when you said you weren’t much of a teacher.”

Stephen considered being offended, but instead he swept Loki’s leg out from under him, upsetting his balance and sending him towards the ground with an undignified yelp. So fast it was a blur even to him, Stephen summoned a collection of cushions into existence underneath Loki’s falling form. He still got the wind knocked out of him, rolling over before he looked up at Strange in disbelief. His pupils were wide, reducing the darker red of his iris to a thin line between pupil and rose-colored sclera.

“Lesson one,” Stephen said pleasantly, “speak and act with intent.” He folded his hands behind his back and strolled leisurely around Loki as he lay, confused, on the floor. “Everything I teach you, I teach you for a reason. Every rule I give you, I give you for a reason. If you want to learn from me,” he went on, leaning over Loki’s face, “then you’re going to have to play nice.” Stephen cocked his head as Loki stared up at him, breathing a little hard. “Any questions?”

He saw Loki’s throat move before he shook his head firmly, raising himself up on his arms. He had a stern, restrained look on his face as he found his feet, and he let Stephen guide his limbs without question or complaint.

~*~

“Lesson three: you won’t always have your favorite weapon on hand – you need to be comfortable improvising.”

A frustrated scowl curled Loki’s lip. “These aren’t even magical weapons,” he protested, gesturing bitterly with the quarterstaff in his hand to the weapons rack beside him.

“True,” Stephen said, pulling shields from the air, “but you’re going to spar with them anyway.”

There was something in Loki’s eye whenever Stephen took the “demanding instructor” tone. It wasn’t anything as transparent as _heat_ or outright _lust_ – it was more that his features fixed themselves as if in concentration, like it took significant effort to hold back whatever he wanted to do or say. Stephen told himself he didn’t want to see it cut loose, but he knew it was a lie.

The tension grew between them with each passing day, a dance comprised of lingering glances and clever barbs. With the sanctums secure once more and a remarkable dearth of apocalyptic threats, Stephen could reasonably justify the amount of time he spent with Loki by saying that he needed to keep himself in practice.

Loki made a good showing of his martial skills, with reflexes like a snake and the keen eye of one possessed of a single-minded desire. It was good that he was so motivated in his studies, Stephen thought with amusement as blue limbs whirled the staff around him, looking for an opening. Stephen gave him one, and because he was feeling generous, he made it obvious – telegraphed his intention. Loki didn’t miss it – good – and took advantage of it – also good.

What _wasn’t_ as good was the sound of Stephen’s ribs popping when Loki’s staff connected with the right side of his chest.

The pain was intense and immediate, but Stephen knew pain well enough by now to ask that it wait patiently outside while he tried to break his fall. That done, Stephen let his spells dissipate in a shower of orange sparks. He held himself up with an elbow while his hand went to his ribcage, trying to assess the damage. Not a break, it seemed, but the uncanny feeling of things not fitted together properly told him one or more was certainly dislocated.

Loki was at his side so quickly that a few locks of his dark hair became tangled in his horns. “Stephen,” he called, falling to his knees. “I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“Good hit,” Strange wheezed, doing his best to soften his pained grimace, “your form was great.”

“Stephen, I’ve _hurt_ you, I –”

Stephen bit down on a moan. _Fuck,_ did ribs ever hurt… “Remember that healing spell I showed you?”

Loki’s head shook, eyes wide. “I can’t, I – we didn’t finish that lesson, I don’t know how.”

Stephen’s teeth creaked with the effort of holding in the sounds of his pain. “Give it your best shot,” he rasped.

There was little urgency to this, for Strange. He was uncomfortable, certainly, but living through all the things he’d lived through made a few dislocated ribs seem like a love tap by comparison. It was nice that he was afforded the opportunity to express that he was in pain – hiding it only ever made it harder to deal with – but he knew he was in no danger. If Loki couldn’t manage the spell, Strange would heal himself and turn the whole thing into another of his lessons.

Though he hesitated, Loki did begin to draw the sigil. His lines were tangled, messy, and they reminded Stephen of his own early attempts. Long before he’d accepted the Ancient One’s insistence that he “surrender to the current,” Strange had thrown himself after his power. It was like he’d been trying to cut cloth against its grain, or to rip chunks out of it with his teeth. At the very least it seemed that Loki’s constructs were stable, if a little unsteady.

Loki had closed his eyes for the incantation, tightening his focus. To Stephen’s delight and Loki’s visible surprise, his hands began to softly glow. Breathing deeply, he laid his hands over Stephen’s chest, those blue fingers and dark nails hovering just centimeters above him. The sight and feel of Loki so close made Stephen’s chest tighten with excitement and longing, which sent a spasm through his trunk that crashed against him in a wave of pain. He groaned, fisting a hand in his shirt.

The marks on Loki’s face were drawn taut into a frown as he finished the spell. In moments the pain began to recede, and once Stephen felt sure there was only a dull, throbbing ache left behind, he sighed out with everything he had and let his head fall to the flagstones beneath him.

“Lesson three-and-a-half,” he said on an exhale, “don’t kill your teacher.”

Loki sighed in clear relief. “You left yourself open,” he chided, bringing his hair into order. “It isn’t my fault if you’re slipping in your dotage.”

Strange sat up with Loki’s help, long, dark fingers wrapped gently around his shoulders. Stephen conjured a portal back to the sanctum – something Loki had yet to learn – and protested only a little when it seemed that Loki intended to take Stephen to his room.

“Which one is it?” Loki asked the limping sorcerer.

Though he was loath to do it, Stephen stepped out of Loki’s hold, using the wall to steady himself as the hand on his waist fell away. “It’s really fine,” Stephen said. “I can make my own way from here.”

Stephen was trying to catch his breath when Loki penned him in, pressing him back into the wall and planting his hands on either side of Stephen’s face. His eyes were dark, almost maroon in the warm light of the sanctum as they bore into Stephen’s.

“I will not hear of this,” Loki said dangerously. “You require assistance. I am here. I will assist you.”

Stephen’s eyes widened, though he did his best to suppress that reflex. “O-kay,” he said slowly, unable to break eye contact in the face of Loki’s penetrating stare. “Down the hall, last one on the left.”

The lock released with a _click_ as Stephen gestured towards it, and the door swung open to reveal his living quarters. It was a little dark with the shades drawn, but the light leaking past them lent enough for Loki to see by. Loki helped Stephen lay back on his bed before he himself sat gingerly by Stephen’s hip. Stephen was a little surprised to see that Loki didn’t seem nearly as curious about the rest of the room as he’d expected him to be.

It wasn’t even that Loki appeared _disinterested_ in the rest of his room – it was as though he saw nothing around him, as if Stephen tethered his complete attention and crowded out the rest of the world as he continued to administer healing magic.

Their dreams hadn’t stopped – not really. The only difference was that they hadn’t yet had sex while they were both conscious participants in the dreams, but they met each other frequently in shared astral space to kiss and touch and taste each other in the safety of their minds. It was plain to see that their attraction was mutual, but Stephen found himself somewhat surprised at just how weak the sight of Loki’s _Jotun_ form made him.

There was far from anything wrong with Loki’s Aesir look, and if that was how he felt most comfortable when they were intimate, Stephen could accept that. Indeed, so far that was the only way Loki had appeared when they met in their dreams – but Stephen couldn’t deny his desire for Loki as he appeared during the day. He craved the feel of those markings under his fingers, the beautiful asymmetry of smooth and raised skin. He longed to tangle his hands in Loki’s hair, to explore the texture of his horns and the smooth, raised skin where they met his forehead. He wanted those eyes, deep and red and _wanting_ , to look up at him plaintively – or better yet, to look down at him with heated disdain, saying something derisive as he wrung his pleasure out of him.

Having only _encouraged_ his burgeoning erection with these thoughts, Strange felt a rising heat on his neck and face as Loki’s attention neared his hips. The pain in his ribs was gone for the most part, but Loki gave no sign that he planned to stop tending to him. When his hands finally hovered just shy of the hem of Stephen’s pants, Loki made a show of looking to where the fabric strained, cocked an eyebrow and slid his hungry gaze up to meet Stephen’s.

“Is this your way of telling me that you like pain?”

Stephen shut his eyes and groaned, covering his face with his hands. What was he supposed to say to that? A “yes” might give them just the push they needed to bring their physical relationship into the material plane, but what if Loki wasn’t ready for that? A “no” might discourage Loki from asking other things of him, and Stephen didn’t want that, either (not to mention that it wouldn’t be entirely true, and he _had_ promised Loki his honesty).

Stephen was relieved of his responsibility to reply as Loki stretched himself out along Strange’s side

“Tell me how I did,” Loki said abruptly.

Stephen slowly turned his head to face him. “Which thing – subluxing my ribs, or healing me?”

Loki made a face. “Both, obviously.”

Stephen laughed, and it barely hurt at all. “Well, I think I’ll pull through, so I suppose you healed me well enough.”

Loki stared at him flatly. “Is this the kind of glowing praise I can expect for everything else I learn?”

Strange chuckled, and that one hurt a bit more. “If you want praise, all you have to do is ask.”

It wasn’t what he’d meant to say – in fact Stephen was fairly certain that he’d been prepared to say something else entirely. But now, suddenly, it was in the air between them, and Loki’s face tightened into that expression of restraint.

_What the hell,_ Stephen thought, _we’re already lying next to each other in my bed._ He pulled on a curious frown. “What do you think about,” he asked softly, “when you look like that?”

Loki’s eyes went steely. “When I look like, ‘what’?”

Though a part of him badly wanted to press the issue, Stephen’s frontal lobe finally caught up with his hindbrain and wisely told him to shake his head and say, “Never mind. But that was a pretty good hit with the staff, I’ll give you that.”

Loki’s expression remained guarded during their debrief, and he left politely but promptly when they were finished. Later that evening they sat together in the library to read, in silent agreement to not discuss it.

~*~

“Lesson six.”

Loki swayed slightly on one leg, the other drawn up so that the sole of his foot rested on the inside of his opposite thigh. His arms were extended straight out from their shoulders, and in each of his hands he held an empty bucket.

“Balance, in all things, is paramount,” Stephen opined, boots clicking gently on the soft wood floor. “Your body has changed a lot in the past few months.”

Loki sneered, “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Stephen smiled peacefully. With a sweeping gesture he conjured one bucket’s worth of water and split it between the two that Loki held. He buckled momentarily with the added weight, but regained his center and was glaring at Stephen almost immediately.

“Because of this,” Stephen continued, “you won’t be able to fight or wield magic in the ways you’re used to. You need to acquaint yourself with your body, get comfortable in your skin.”

Loki sighed dramatically. “Please, Stephen, for the love of everything you hold sacred, end this tedious instruction.” He hadn’t failed to notice the way Stephen looked at him when Loki gave him an unobstructed view of his eyes; he’d come to think of it as a sort of hypnosis, a way of getting Stephen under his thrall.

He did so now, stared Stephen down and let his eyes become hooded. “Do you not suppose there are more entertaining ways of getting me into shape?”

Strange adopted a look of wry amusement as he walked slowly around Loki where he stood. “Entertaining,” he mused aloud. “Do you have something particular in mind?”

Loki waited until Strange had come back around to face him to reply, but as he opened his mouth there suddenly appeared more water in the buckets he held. His arms jerked briefly before he could level them out again, by which time Strange had passed him by.

“I’m waiting,” the sorcerer sang. Loki felt at once like kissing and throttling him, but he pressed on. He _would_ have what he wanted, today, one way or another.

There was only so much a man could take, and right about now Loki was a man that had taken more than what he considered his fair share of teasing and coquetry. They saw each other in the night, in their dreams, but it had yet to go further than fervent kisses and heavy petting. They didn’t discuss it, didn’t lay any rules or mark any boundaries. Doing so would have lent what they were doing more weight, if they talked about it in the daylight hours.

Loki was ready to add some weight.

Projecting a confidence he did not feel, Loki held his head high, looking down at Stephen as he passed. “We could always meet in the reading room,” he said, smooth and soft. “You know the one.” He coupled his insistent gaze with a drop in his tone, held Stephen’s eyes. “You do so seem to like it when I press you down into that chair.” Stephen stood rooted to the spot while Loki looked up, as if in thought. “Or was it the sofa? No, the desk?”

A predatory smile spread deliciously across Loki’s face. “Oh, that’s right,” he crooned, “how silly of me to forget: you’re not choosy when I’ve got you har- _hrngh._ ”

The buckets were topped up with water, and Loki realized that his arms had been getting tired. They strained, now, with the effort of keeping the buckets suspended, trembling minutely

“If by tonight,” Strange said softly, “you can still move your arms, perhaps we’ll put your theory to the test.” He leaned in, close enough that Loki could smell his aftershave and feel the heat of his breath. “Because I’ll have you know, I can be quite an exacting partner.”

Loki had the fiercest urge to reach out and _bite_ him, to take him by the throat and bend him, mold him, rather than the other way around. It was dark and primal and hungry, and it took every ounce of his self control to resist. “Then I’ll see you tonight,” he said smoothly. “The usual time?”

“The usual time,” Stephen agreed, calling over his shoulder as he walked away, “The water will dissipate in thirty minutes as long as you hold your form. Don’t keep me waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch the animals Thor said Loki could turn into? They’re each tied to one or more of the stories in his mythology!
> 
> This is way too much fun to do research for, you guys.


	18. As You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reading room rendezvous is waylaid...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this week. I got through writing most of this and realized that I wanted to push back the real-world kiss AGAIN - so rather than doing that, I decided to publish what I have and go from there. Thanks for your attention and patience! I promise these boys will get their Very Satisfying encounter at the end of all this slow-burn 💜

“Stephen…”

A frown stole over Strange’s face. He’d been waiting for Loki in the reading room for longer than he would ever have admitted, and that was certainly the voice he wanted to hear… but the tone was all wrong. Loki sounded miserable, with an undercurrent of need that had nothing to do with sex. Stephen set aside the book he had been reading and turned to find Loki in the doorway.

His shoulders were hunched, and he was holding his arms gingerly, palms upturned. Pained lines creased across his forehead and around his eyes, leaving his face bare of all but the distress of acute, agonizing pain.

Stephen had felt that look on his own face too many times to _not_ rush to Loki’s side. “What’s the matter?”

Loki’s arms were crossed at the wrist, hugged close and stiff against his middle. “My hands, they…”

Stephen looked. The black nails of Loki’s fingers appeared significantly longer than they had been only hours before. “May I touch you?” Stephen asked.

Loki nodded, glancing at Stephen briefly through his eyelashes, wet with unshed tears, but he otherwise kept his attention firmly on the floor.

Stephen began his exam at Loki’s elbow, carefully feeling for irregularities in the tendons or bones. Nothing seemed amiss, until he worked his way back to Loki’s wrist. A wince and a sharp gasp told Stephen he’d found what he was looking for: a row of knobby, pliant tissue deposits, warm and inflamed under the skin of Loki’s wrist and hand.

Stephen sought Loki’s eye. “What hurts?”

Loki’s voice was small. “All of it,” he wavered. “Everything.” Those red eyes, ferocious and beautiful, were downcast, releasing a few errant tears as Loki fought to control his breathing.

With an ache in his chest Stephen took a gentle hold of Loki’s hands, felt them tremble against his palms. “I’m going to help you, okay? It’ll be alright.”

Loki nodded but didn’t meet Stephen’s eyes, his gaze distant and downward-facing.

Stephen had never exercised this sort of empathetic interest for any of his patients, and felt like that said rather a lot about the kind of doctor he had been. But he _knew_ Loki, cared about him more than was perhaps wise, though it was a bit late at this point to doubt what had happened – what _was happening_ – between them.

Stephen helped Loki settle into a chair, magicking another close so that he could sit and face his patient. Loki held his arms close, fingers stiff and trembling against his chest. Closer now, Stephen took the opportunity to examine Loki’s hands as one was laid gingerly in the palm Stephen offered.

The nails were significantly longer than they had been only an hour or two ago, though Stephen realized with a guilty pang that he’d been too busy teasing and flirting with Loki to notice if the change had started before or during the exercise. They now extended nearly an inch and a half from the nail bed and were… spasming, shortening and lengthening in ten- or fifteen-second intervals that coincided with peaks in Loki’s stifled sounds of pain. Upon closer examination, Stephen found that where once there had been narrow cuticles at the bases of Loki’s nail beds, there were now thin keratin sheaths from which the nails extended and into which they receded.

Stephen thanked his surgical experience for the stoic expression he was able to plaster onto his face. “May I magically reduce your pain?”

Loki opened his mouth to reply, but his teeth snapped together as his face was stretched taut into a grimace. Stephen observed that the nails seemed to be hyper-extending, stretching against their sheaths and revealing the bony protrusions from which they appeared to be growing.

With no further prompting or hesitation, Stephen took up Loki’s hands delicately, siphoning dimensional energy into them to reduce the inflammation that simmered under the dark blue skin.

A minute passed before Loki’s features relaxed and his breathing resumed its normal rhythm. He gave Stephen a good-humored glare. “What if I had said ‘no’?” he challenged.

Stephen was careful not to jostle Loki as he laughed. “I would have asked you to reconsider,” he said, settling Loki’s hands onto his thighs.

“And if I’d said no, still?”

It was a toothless challenge, Stephen knew – but he met it anyway. “Then I would have refrained, asked you if there was something else I could do to help make you more comfortable.”

Loki looked ready with a retort, but his teeth clenched and his eyes pressed shut before he could deliver it. Stephen could only watch, dismayed as the tendons in Loki’s neck stood out and his body went rigid, slackening with a series of heavy breaths after a few long, agonizing moments.

To Stephen’s searching gaze Loki replied, “My arms…” His throat had to work hard to bring words into his mouth. “It’s like lightning, from my hands up past my elbows.”

“Nerve pain,” Stephen observed. He knew it well. “Is it alright if I touch you again?”

Loki’s eyes were momentarily playful, before he caught himself and averted them from Stephen’s. “I won’t say no,” he dodged.

Stephen’s hands were steady as they trailed up Loki’s arm, pressing gently into the muscles there. Stephen knew Loki was toned – god knew he spent enough time looking – but it was something else entirely to feel those firm, yielding tracts of flesh in the warm light of the sanctum’s evening. Stephen’s fingers traced Loki’s marks, raised skin drawn in parallel lines up Loki’s forearm. When Stephen reached Loki’s bicep and deltoid, the markings were nested together in three curved, concentric lines that held small, raised dots in their troughs.

What began as pleased sighs of relief turned into something deeper, breathier the longer Stephen paid attention to the marks. A brief glance up from his work afforded Stephen a perfect view of the purple-pink flush that was rising in Loki’s cheeks, which he unfortunately managed to get under control mere moments later. _Pity._

They sat in an almost-comfortable quiet, Loki reclining in his chair and Stephen in front of him, rubbing Loki’s arm while their knees were close enough to brush against each other. After a brief fight with his horns to make himself comfortable while resting his head, Loki spoke up. “Not quite what you were hoping for, I imagine.”

Stephen frowned. “What do you mean?”

Loki was quiet for a few long moments, glancing only briefly up at Stephen. “Earlier, when we spoke,” he elaborated cautiously, “it sounded as if we were going to…”

He trailed off, and Stephen was momentarily abandoned by the rest of his brain as it was flooded with something helpless and fond. Where earlier Loki had been all seductive bravado, now, with his sharp eyes downcast and a gently-pointed tooth worrying his lip, he was utterly endearing.

“Loki,” Stephen said, “I’m not disappointed that we’re not going to be intimate, tonight.”

Loki’s eyes hardened into rubies. “So that is not your desire, then?”

Stephen felt his eyebrows shoot up, cinched together with a frown. “No, no – that’s not what I mean,” he assured Loki, laying a cautious hand on his upper arm. “I _do_ want that, if it’s what you want, too – but I’m not disappointed that we can’t do it tonight.”

Loki’s eyes searched Stephen’s critically, warily. “Perhaps it’s just as well,” he mused. “Wong’s charm grows uncomfortable after a time.”

Stephen felt confusion shaping his face. “Why would you need the charm? It’s just us, here.”

Endearing a habit as it sometimes was, Stephen worried that Loki might actually cut himself with the way he was chewing at his lip. With little in the way of conscious thought Stephen reached forward, Loki’s eyes tracking the movement, until Stephen’s thumb could brush the corner of Loki’s mouth, freeing his abused lip.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” Stephen muttered lamely, a heat crawling up his neck that threatened to become a flush.

Stephen could almost convince himself that he imagined the way Loki seemed to chase after his fingers, the tip of his pink tongue just visible past blue lips – but the movement was subsumed into a lazy lick at the sore spot on Loki’s lip. Stephen didn’t quite succeed in trying not to be distracted by it.

Loki’s posture softened as the worst of his pain receded and his nails seemed to settle down – Stephen counted longer intervals between their movements, now, and when they did flex or retract they did so more conservatively.

“You have to see me like this every day,” Loki explained, with a smile that Stephen didn’t like. “I should think that you would want me more…” He gestured vaguely. “… if we are intimate outside of our dreams.”

Stephen felt his expression darken; Loki’s eyes fell yet again.

“What do I have to do to convince you that I like you regardless of how you look?” Stephen asked, gentle but emphatic. Loki’s body image was important to him, and that was fine – but it was frustrating that Loki took Stephen's distaste for granted.

Loki gave Stephen a look of shocked incredulity. “Stephen, there’s nothing wrong with your preferring my more beautiful form,” he said in a way that he probably thought sounded reassuring. “It’s how we’ve met in our dreams, every time. You don’t need to pretend that you find this shape desirable; I assure you that I don’t take it personally.”

Stephen raked a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. _I guess we’re doing this, now._

“Loki,” he said gravely, “it seems that I haven’t made myself clear with you, so let me do so now.” He held up a finger when Loki opened his mouth to reply. “No, you need to hear this.”

Stephen found himself wanting to fidget, but instead busied his hands with rubbing Loki’s arms, again. Into his movements Stephen tried to pour the whole of his admiration, all the feelings he had done a terrible job of hiding and an even worse job of explaining.

“You are,” Stephen began in a low tone, “without question, one of the smartest, most capable people I have ever met. You’ve lived longer and seen more than most creatures could ever dream.” Stephen pressed his thumb deliberately into the valley between two of the curved lines on Loki’s bicep, made note of the tremor in the breath Loki took as Stephen’s hands worked.

“You are brave, devoted, and thoughtful.” Stephen applied gentle pressure across the skin of Loki’s forearm. “You care about others, though you’ve learned to hide it well.” Stephen pulled out his smarmiest smirk and found encouragement in the rapt attention with which Loki observed him. “But not from me,” Stephen finished.

Loki’s eyes were wide, his face open and _vulnerable_ and Stephen had to restrain himself from lunging forward and staking a claim on those dark blue lips, just barely parted. The jammy flush that rose high in his cheeks lent him a youthful, almost awestruck expression – as if Stephen was explaining something wondrous that, until now, he had thought utterly inconceivable.

Stephen did not relent: “I am surprised by you every day,” he said, and it felt dangerously like a confession. “You challenge me, teach me things.”

At this Loki gave a thin scoff. “I, teach you?”

Stephen ran his hands gently one last time over the arm he’d been working with before reaching for Loki’s opposite one. From the corner of his eye he could see Loki’’s, red and wide and questioning – as if he couldn’t believe that Stephen would continue to touch him.

“You’ve taught me so much,” Stephen said, too soft, too honest, but he didn’t care. Something was happening here that he wasn’t sure how to stop. “And you’ve… made me better.”

Loki seemed as if he was ready to reply to that, but whatever he had planned to say was swallowed up in the helpless, airy sound he released as Stephen pressed once again on the marks. Stephen fully intended to make use of this data, now and later and every time in between that Loki would let Stephen touch him. It was intoxicating, the warmth of his flesh under cool blue skin, the heat behind Loki’s eyes as they shone like garnets, the regal slant of his horns.

_You’re totally screwed,_ he told himself.

“You are,” Stephen said, not bothering to pretend that his attention to Loki’s marks was anything but deliberate, now, “without question, one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. That’s true whether your skin is blue or not.” He chanced a look up at Loki’s face again and was rewarded with a glassy stare and an unparalleled view of Loki’s mouth as its lips parted to release gentle, panting breaths. Stephen knew he was close to making a fool of himself – he was going to say something stupid or get an erection (it wouldn’t take much more). But he didn’t care. Loki needed to hear this, and apparently Stephen needed to say it.

“I like spending time with you,” he told Loki earnestly, “I like talking to you and arguing with you. And even though I know you’re going to use this against me later, I like the way you talk back and question everything I say. I like _you_.”

It was much too close to the truth and Stephen didn’t realize it until the words hung between them, thickening and heating the air until it felt as though there was nothing at all in the multiverse but them, in this room, together and warm and safe and on the precipice of something.

With slow, careful movements, Stephen moved forward in his seat and let his hands fall between his knees. The temptation was strong to simply continue as he had been, stroking the sensitive marks to keep Loki flushed and a little breathless. Instead, though, he reached forward and carefully slid his fingers under Loki’s where they laid on his lap, watching for signs of discomfort. Loki gave none, but scanned Stephen’s face intently.

“And that includes the way you look,” Stephen finished, a little breathless himself. “I like that, too. Every day, every night, any time at all. Because no matter what you look like, if I’m looking at you, it means you’re _here_.”

Stephen felt his brows come together immediately, already in the process of deconstructing that statement and figuring out how to make light of it, when –

“You don’t mean that.”

It felt a little like time stopping, for Stephen. It was abrupt, uncanny, and completely disorienting before he processed exactly what had happened. Loki was looking at Stephen with, of all things, dismay.

“You can’t mean that, Stephen – look at me!” Careless of his tender hands, Loki flung out his arms. “I have _horns_ , Stephen – look at me – and _claws_ , my teeth are _sharp_. This has ‘monster’ written all over it, and you’re trying to tell me that you _desire_ me like this? How? Why?”

“Because it’s _you_ ,” Stephen insisted. “Loki, I didn’t let you stay in the sanctum because I like the way you _look_. I don’t meet up with you in astral space because I only want to kiss you when you look like an Aesir.” _I want to kiss you all the time,_ he didn’t say – didn’t _want_ to say. Wasn’t sure why that was a thought he had, at all.

_Yeah, you’re totally screwed._

Loki was observing Stephen with a mix of awe and horror, but as the seconds ticked by Loki seemed to process these feelings into something like resignation. “I had really thought the horns would get you,” he confessed bitterly.

Stephen blinked. “What, that _that_ would be the breaking point?”

“Well, yes,” Loki said simply, slouching back in his chair and _still_ looking at Stephen like he couldn’t believe his _audacity_. “I’ve seen you looking at my eyes, and I suppose your familiarity with other races might make the skin color less startling.” He shook his head again. “But _horns_? Really?”

Stephen held up his hands. “I’m sorry, what’s happening right now?”

“Oh, come on, Stephen,” Loki said frankly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You honestly think I could sustain _that_ level of self-loathing for this many months and not grow bored of it?”

Stephen’s eyes pinched shut. “Not what I was expecting, but okay.”

Loki laughed, and it set something fluttering in Stephen’s stomach. “Instead of guessing what I’ll do or what I want, try asking me,” he suggested, tone tempered by the humor in his eyes. “I assure you, you’ll get the results you’re after much more quickly.

Far from rendering him speechless, this invitation saw Stephen’s mind with dozens of questions at the ready. Of all of them, though, it wasn’t difficult to pick the one he wanted to ask first. Stephen breathed deeply and pressed forward to the edge of his seat.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Loki smiled, and wasn’t _that_ a sight: dark lips, pink tongue, white teeth, and laughter lines that accented the faint, raised marks on his face.

“I rather think I do, actually,” Loki murmured, lips barely a hair’s breadth from Stephen’s.

It wasn’t a deep kiss, just a brush of their lips, but Stephen’s body responded immediately, urging him to touch and taste and seek out more of this, more of _Loki_.

There would be time to consider the implications of all of this, later. Much later. For now, Stephen would settle for committing this moment to perfect, indelible memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. There are a few ways I think this chapter could be improved, but I’m interested to know what thoughts you guys have!


	19. Announcement: Xmas 2020

Hello, dear friends! (skip to the TLDR if you want the shorter version of this message)

If you're reading this, then that probably means that you've read at least some of the story up until now. Maybe you dropped in for a chapter or two, or marked it for later, or only found yourself passing interested - either way, you've spent some amount of time reading what I've written, and for that I offer you my deepest, most sincere gratitude! I've learned so much in writing this story and am looking forward to finishing it, expanding on it, and moving forward onto other projects.

This isn't a "goodbye" - I'm not dropping the story, not by a long shot! Gotta get these boys their happy ending :3 BUT, in the spirit of transparency and open communication, I want to let you know that there may not be a chapter update this week. I think we can all agree that 2020 was some next-level bullshit, at the holiday season doesn't help. I am extraordinarily fortunate to be able to enjoy the holiday in safety, and I hope that you all can do the same.

TLDR: Maybe no chapter update this week, but I'll resume regular posting on Saturday, January 2nd 2021. May we all awaken in a better world once 2020 is behind us.

I can't thank you all enough for the support and kind words you've offered me throughout this series. Re-learning how to write creatively is a difficult process, and I'm so grateful to have even a small following who like my work enough to offer me encouragement and advice.

All my love,  
Gyre_and_Gimble


	20. Final Exam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Stephen make their moves.

_Six months later._

Two magical shuriken embedded themselves into the wall behind Stephen, about six inches from his face, with a sound like water sizzling. His eyes widened as two more crashed against the shields he swiftly conjured to cover his face and chest, and this time the stars burst into clouds of faintly luminous sparks before their energy dissipated.

Strange scanned the courtyard’s shadows for his assailant. As he did, two figures emerged from twilight-darkened alcoves: wrought from threads of green and golden light, they bore a striking resemblance to a familiar Jotun. The comparison was strengthened when, with matching looks of bloodthirsty glee, the figures flicked their wrists, manifesting wicked-looking daggers into their hands.

Loki’s clones deftly parried Strange’s blows and struck out with blinding speed. Strange held them off for a fair few minutes before helpers of his own appeared, distracting Loki’s wiry avatars. The doubles Strange conjured were fleshed-out, visually identical to Stephen himself in his robe and Cloak. Loki’s doppelgangers split and re-formed into additional copies until there were four Loki look-alikes facing Strange and his two clones. As the threads that wove them together rippled and tightened, the wire-framed figures fell back into a line, and their progenitor emerged from the shadows behind them.

He was draped in greens and golds, smooth wraps around his forearms that mirrored the design of the sashes he had worn during his first months at the sanctum. His robe was cut in the same style as Stephen’s, stitched in greens and golds that offered a striking contrast to the blue of his skin. Where Stephen wore the Cloak, Loki wore a wide-sleeved, neatly tailored coat that cinched in at his waist and hung down to his knees. The one part of his getup that Stephen had never seen before was the gold ring around one of his horns, linked to a matching cuff on his ear by a delicate gold chain. The sight of it engendered in Stephen an array of feelings for which he felt ill-prepared, so he compartmentalized and told himself he’d sort and analyze them later.

If the rakish smirk and prideful jut of his chin were any indication, Loki did not intend for such an analysis to be within the scope of Stephen’s power, when this was over.

“Well done, sorcerer,” Loki drawled, clapping his hands together limply, “you’ve given me just enough time to infiltrate and destroy this little temple of yours.” Apart from the two of them, Kamar-Taj was ghostly quiet.

Stephen kept his face sternly neutral. “Seems to me it’s still standing,” he observed, doing his best not to let the heat of Loki’s gaze – eyes a vibrant red and alight with mischief under the rising moon – stoke the fire in Stephen’s chest.

Loki made a thoughtful sound, trailing a hand along the shoulder of the mimic nearest him as he sauntered around his four rough-hewn magical minions. “The night is still young,” he said, as if to reassure Strange. “Plenty of time for us to raze the place.” He punctuated the end of his sentence by purposefully extending his nails, their sharp tips digging into the clone’s shoulder. The threads that wove it together flared and hissed at the insult. To Stephen’s surprise, the double rolled its shoulders back, as if seeking the pain it couldn’t feel, tilting its head and baring its neck in a way Stephen judged to be entirely indecent.

Drawing himself back and moving in time with his clones, Stephen gestured a length of glowing rope into his hands, snapping it taut as he said, in time with his copies, “You can certainly try.”

The fight lasted several minutes, Loki’s four doppelgangers against Stephen’s two while the sorcerers themselves took swipes at each other on the sidelines. This was a test of their concentration and flexibility; clones took a great deal of energy to summon and maintain. Stephen had supervised the reclamation of Loki’s muscle tone, fine motor function and magical acumen, but he was quickly learning that it was quite another thing to earnestly fight against it, himself.

As Strange caught his breath, Loki pressed his advantage and managed to push him back against one of the pillars surrounding the courtyard.

Loki leaned in close and said, with his teeth bared, “Yield.”

Stephen pretended to consider it. “I suppose I could do that,” he mused with a grin, “but it would be a shame to put a stop to the fun, don’t you think?”

Loki’s laughter was couched in a sneer. “Is that what we’re doing? Having _fun_?”

“Well, _I_ am,” Stephen said, offering Loki a look of wry concern. “Are you not?”

Before Loki could reply, Stephen phased into the wall behind him, catching the briefest glimpse of Loki’s expression – confused and surprised – before Strange’s sight was darkened by the matter that enveloped him. Trans-matter spatial manipulation was something Loki hadn’t ever really gotten his teeth into, in his months of study. Despite Stephen’s chagrin as an instructor endeavoring to teach this skill to his recalcitrant student, Strange could not deny that Loki’s impatience and boredom were now bearing fruit in the form of a momentary reprieve from their fight.

From inside the temple’s walls Stephen watched his clones fight Loki’s, taking in their stance, their fighting style. So engrossed was he in his assessment that he nearly missed Loki himself teleporting up to the nearby roof. It was only thanks to the glint of those gold rings and the smooth rustle of his coat in the night air that Stephen noticed him at all. The teleport wasn’t clean, leaving in its wake a trail of dark vapor, but Stephen suspected that wasn’t entirely by accident. Even now, locked in battle with his one-time teacher, Loki couldn’t help but surrender to his lust for showmanship.

Minutes of flashing magical combat later saw Stephen’s clones reduce the third and fourth of Loki’s copies to sparks before closing in to restrain the remaining two. Stephen emerged from the woodwork, the Cloak doing him the favor of bringing him to the center of the courtyard where his doubles held their prisoners. They remained defiant in the arms of their captors; the Loki clone on Stephen’s left threw its head back, attempting to crash its horns into the nose of the Stephen clone that held it fast. Stephen’s copy responded by tightening his grip on the length of magical rope that held it captive, pulling Loki’s wire-framed minion closer to himself.

As Stephen’s feet met the flagstones of the courtyard, the Loki copy to his right attempted to wrench itself from the grip of Stephen’s clone, lunging ineffectually forward with a snarl. Stephen permitted himself a low laugh when he heard the crackling edge of the mimic’s voice. It wasn’t only the visual edges of Loki’s constructs that were a little rough, it seemed.

In response to this show of aggression, Stephen’s second clone applied greater force: it took Loki’s double by one of its horns and wrenched its head back. As the clone continued to thrash and fight, Stephen caught the shift in the character of its struggling. Where before every movement had been made with the intent to harm, slow, or incapacitate, this was a full-body shudder that went through Loki’s avatar in response to this particular rough treatment. Rather than squirming in an attempt to free itself, it appeared to be seeking _more_ from the touch.

Strange didn’t often get the chance to lord over anyone, these days. He respected most of his colleagues too much and knew better than to offer insult to any of the entities with which his work brought him into contact. As a narcissistic surgeon in remission, though, he let himself step off the wagon just this once. “I had thought you might offer me a bit more of a challenge,” he lamented haughtily. “I guess you really were a terrible student.”

“Perhaps you are simply not cut out for teaching,” Loki replied smoothly.

Stephen felt more than he heard Loki burst from the shadows behind him, dropping from the narrow terrace that oversaw the eastern wall. With a flicker of magic Strange swapped places with one of his clones, inhabiting the space behind the green-and-gold avatar and tightening his grip on its bound hands. The mimic itself twitched, tried to crane its neck, but Stephen tightened his grip still further. The magical threads that wove the construct together crackled and hummed beneath his fingers, and when he tightened his hold on its horn, Stephen saw Loki himself falter in his assault against Stephen’s displaced clone. His theory was delightfully confirmed when Stephen dragged his fingertips over the ridges of the doppelganger’s horns, holding and rubbing firmly back and forth.

Loki stumbled, his lethal grace shattered, but he managed to subdue and restrain the clone he’d been fighting in much the same way Stephen had restrained Loki’s.

Red eyes narrowed as they glared at Stephen. “That isn’t playing very fair, sorcerer.”

Stephen smirked, continued working his hands over the surface of the clone’s horn so that he could see the breath catch in the real Loki’s throat. Tying simpler constructs to one’s well of power was an easy way to bring a crowd to the party, but the drawbacks were ample. One of the detriments of conjuring helpers this way was that sensations were often transmitted across the link, especially where the body was sensitive.

Stephen held Loki’s eye as he pressed his thumb into the curve of the horn in his hand, saw Loki shiver. “I don’t remember fairness factoring into this little exercise.”

Loki straightened, snapping the lapels of his coat and smoothing back his hair – the picture of reclaimed control. “Then shall we continue?” he prompted, dismissing his constructs with a wave of his hand.

Stephen did the same, and his clones disappeared. “Come at me, then,” Stephen invited, folding his hands behind his back.

With a careful nod Loki gestured, calling a weapon into each of his hands. He had immediately gravitated to tessenjutsu – the same technique that allowed the Ancient One to wield war fans with deadly grace. Loki affected the same sort of fatal elegance in his assault, effortlessly batting away the glowing sigils Strange held up to defend himself.

“Is this really all you’ve got?” Loki sneered, jabbing one folded fan at Strange’s middle, missing by a hair’s breadth. “This planet is in deep trouble if this is the best its Sorcerer Supreme has to offer.”

Strange only smiled as he continued to repel Loki’s attacks. It was a good strategy; putting an enemy on edge with a well-timed insult could make them sloppy and prone to mistakes. Fortunately, if there was one thing this job had impressed upon Stephen, it was that he had little he needed to prove to anyone. It reduced Loki’s poisoned barbs to harmless brambles – but against another opponent, Strange supposed, it wouldn’t have been a bad idea.

He’d never say it, but one thing Stephen _did_ want to prove – to Loki and to himself – was that he could, in fact, be an effective teacher, but not because he felt he’d missed his calling. He supposed it was more that he didn’t want Loki to feel let down – that all his time and effort under Strange’s instruction had been time wasted.

When he was satisfied with Loki’s command of his tessen, Stephen conjured and let himself fall through a portal that brought him into the New York sanctum. Once his feet hit the floor, he entered the mirror dimension – with Loki close on his heels.

Stephen liked a lot of things about Loki. One of them was his tenacity, the focus he affected when he moved and spoke, eyes ever sharp. Loki was as focused in combat as he was in matters of intimacy; he’d spent the first several times they’d been together intently watching Stephen, gauging his reactions to one touch or another. It hadn’t taken him very long to figure out what formula of tongue and teeth and fingers let him take Stephen most spectacularly apart. Stephen had taken plenty of people to bed before, but it had never felt anything like this: a hungry flame, roaring high and hot in his blood.

Loki thrust himself into Stephen’s space, drawing Stephen from his reverie and taking a series of hard swipes aimed at his middle. Loki had embraced his discomfort and referred to the sharp nails he could extend and retract as “claws” some weeks into his instruction. He saw no reason not to be candid, he’d said, and something soft and proud had warmed Stephen’s chest.

Loki held his claws out precisely, only enough to scratch skin or, when the occasion called for it, shred clothes. By now Stephen couldn’t begin to imagine what his back would look like, if not for the healing he and Loki were able to administer after their more intense sessions. Stephen had only recently begun to accept that he liked a little pain mixed with his pleasure, not because it was some long-held and secretly-hidden urge but because it was extremely difficult, while the Sorcerer Supreme, to find a partner with whom he could experiment. Anyone who knew about the work he did and the powers he tampered with was either a close friend or an enemy, neither of whom were practical bed partners. It wasn’t as if he had much in the way of free time, either, to vet any romantic contenders or to establish enough of a rapport for the sex to ever feel meaningful. Stephen was a man who had made peace with the fact that one-night-stands simply weren’t for him long ago; especially since the accident, he’d determined that the potential risks outweighed the potential rewards for navigating sexual or romantic intimacy.

But intimacy with Loki? That was another beast entirely.

Loki was as passionate and ruthless in his conquest of Stephen as he’d been when trying to conquer Earth, during his tesseract-induced fever. If he had been put off by the myriad imperfections and signs of wear on Stephen’s body, Loki had never given any sign. He sought to devour Stephen, ravenous in his taking and gentle in his giving. A complex predator, to be sure.

And a predator he was, hurtling towards Stephen as the latter sought to put some distance between him and his pursuer. He could feel sweat dampening his hairline and trickling down the back of his neck, and was reminded of the last time he’d been chased into the sanctum’s foyer – the day he’d fallen through a portal, taken Tony’s call, and made for Switzerland. The day he’d first seen Loki, again.

Nostalgia and warm feelings would not stop him from making Loki work for this. A love that offers no challenge is no love worth chasing, after all.

Stephen’s doubles met Loki’s as they burst from the walls and tried to snatch at Stephen. The green-and-gold homunculi fizzled into nothing as Loki’s power was pushed and pulled through the space. The range of his control and the swiftness with which his spells could shift in shape and purpose said a lot about the power he had learned to command.

Stephen wasn’t sure who would win, if they were to really fight each other. It was thrilling.

Thrilling like his lips, never cool for long once they met Stephen’s, and his tongue, which seemed always hot enough to leave burning tracks in its wake as it took a greedy account of Stephen’s skin. Thrilling like the first time they’d come together, all caution and tenderness cast aside as soon as their exploratory preamble was done. There was tenderness in their love, to be sure, but after months of mutual pining and shared dreams, a man could only hold back for so long with such an eager and willing partner.

Stephen mused, as he dodged blows from Loki’s conjured minions, that it was only due to their strange circumstances and the manner of their meeting that they were able to achieve a level of emotional intimacy that made the physical seem more possible, in Stephen’s mind. His brain was his most precious possession, and he did not give its powers lightly; holding grudges only served to hand control to the ones who hurt him, and the time and energy spent in needless worry could be better used by doing just about anything else. Given this, it seemed all the clearer to Stephen that the amount of time he’d spent thinking and worrying about Loki should have clued him in to the depth of his feelings sooner.

The man in question succeeded in running him down, catching up and pouncing. Their struggle lasted only moments; Stephen’s reserves were depleted, and he was satisfied with what he’d seen.

Loki pressed Stephen back against the wall, and it was only thanks to their being in the mirror dimension that the painting hanging there didn’t fall on Strange’s head. Loki wrapped one hand around Stephen’s throat as the other trapped his wrists against the wall and above him.

“Yield,” he commanded once again.

Panting, flushed, and by now famished for the feel of Loki’s skin, Stephen did.

“I yield.”

Loki’s posture relaxed instantly, but he didn’t relinquish his hold on Stephen. “Then it’s over?” he clarified.

Stephen nodded, still working to catch his breath. “It’s over.”

Loki tipped his head inquisitively, the thin gold chain between his horn and ear gently swaying. “And?”

A breathy laugh preceded Stephen’s answer: “I’d say you passed.”

Loki’s smile was broad and bright, and it reached his eyes – deeply scarlet in the warm, refracted light of the sanctum. Stephen was ready to meet Loki in the kiss he seemed to be coming in for, but faltered when Loki’s lips passed his by, to say into his ear, “Then it would seem celebrations are in order.”

Stephen’s mouth was a little dry, so his throat stuck when he swallowed. Certainly, this was an effect of the dehydration that came with rigorous physical exertion, and had nothing to do with the fact that Loki needed only to be in the same _room_ as Stephen for him to become aroused. This argument, made only to himself, was dealt a significant blow by the obvious bulge in his pants – made more obvious by the thigh Loki pressed against it.

The smile he gave at finding Stephen hard through his robe was positively feral.

“What have we here?” Loki marveled, a dark edge to it. “Don’t tell me you designed this little ‘test’ all because you like to be chased?”

Stephen managed to clear his throat at last, and Loki’s fingers loosened their hold instantly. When it was clear he hadn’t been signaling for Loki to stop, his grin returned, and his fingers wrapped back around Stephen’s neck. The low-key tenderness of the exchange produced a fondness in Stephen that was quickly subsumed into the thrill of Loki growling into his ear:

“If that was all you wanted, you know you could have just asked, darling.”

Stephen was forever weak to Loki’s tongue (in every sense), but the obscenities he liked to whisper rendered Stephen utterly helpless. Long moments of sustained pressure against his hardening length, coupled with the things Loki was either promising or threatening to do, left Stephen overwrought and breathless.

Loki’s tongue let itself into Stephen’s mouth without so much as an introductory prod, and Stephen melted into it, moaning with abandon as everything _Loki_ bombarded his senses. The press of his teeth and tongue, the feel of his cool fingers around Stephen’s neck and, suddenly, threaded between his own fingers as Loki held them above his head; the delicious agony of their mutual and heightened arousal. Months ago, if someone had told Stephen that they could _smell_ when their partner was aroused, he would have dismissed them out of hand. Now, between the two of them, it was all Stephen _could_ smell – the need they shared, bolstered by the sweat of their exertion and the rush of hormones released during and after their fight.

Stephen thought he heard footsteps approaching but reminded himself that they were in the mirror dimension. It still felt a little weird to think that he might be pressed up against a wall when Wong was about to turn down the hall towards them, only one dimension away. He resolved to bring it up when next Loki took a breath between the filthy, open-mouthed kisses he was laying on him.

Stephen wanted, and he was wanted back, and he was wondering why they weren’t in bed already.

~*~

Teleportation, when done the Midgardian way (as Loki referred to Strange’s “mystic arts”), was quite a different thing than teleporting with the Seidr. Where before teleporting had felt clean and smooth, a simple movement between matter, _this_ teleport made Loki feel as if the space around him was sticky, holding and slowing him. The difference between now, as he brought himself and Stephen to the latter’s bedroom, and when he had first started learning Midgardian magic, was that, now, it didn’t scare him. Few things did, anymore.

The hunger Stephen inspired in Loki had scared him, at first. Loki recalled their first few meetings: uncontrolled bursts of ice magic, rutting and growling and clawing, bared teeth and white knuckles. Not all of that had been Loki alone – Strange had himself been containing a similarly animal hunger – but Loki had found his own contribution unnerving. Now, though, after months of late nights and early mornings, of earnestly making love and frantically fucking his sorcerer, Loki felt more at home in his skin than he had ever thought possible.

How could he do otherwise, when this was the body capable of pulling such beautiful sounds out of the mouth of Stephen Strange?

Loki wasted no time working him over, leaving marks across Stephen’s neck and chest with the careful application of teeth and claws. By the time Stephen was worked out of the top half of his robe, his eyes were glazed and his breath was coming in short, desperate pants. Loki leaned down, pressing tender kisses to Strange’s neck, his jaw, hushing and whispering words of praise. He told Stephen all the things he wanted to hear, because they were all true. It was so easy, telling the truth, when his truth looked and sounded like Stephen.

“I never get tired of this,” Loki confessed, brushing a strand of hair from Stephen’s eyes. “Taking you apart.”

Stephen chuckled breathlessly. “You’re evil,” he declared, the words morphing into a broken moan as Loki renewed his attention, sucking and biting at his neck. Stephen ran his fingers along the ridges of Loki’s horns, dragging a noise halfway between a growl and a purr from Loki’s chest.

He’d been self-conscious of his horns right up until he’d realized how _good_ it felt to have them touched. It wasn’t even that the horns themselves were especially sensitive; it was more that the pressure traveled to nerves elsewhere on Loki’s head and neck. The sensation was more or less on par with the way Loki imagined a cat might feel when it was stroked affectionately. He would never admit this, but Stephen seemed to pick up on it all the same.

It was the wonder in Stephen’s eyes as Loki drew back to look at him that turned a light on in Loki’s brain. “You like me like this,” he said, keeping his voice low as his hands roved over Stephen’s chest.

Stephen blinked at him before looking briefly away. “I like you any way I can get you,” he said.

Loki caught Stephen’s chin between his fingers. “No,” he said slowly, “you like me this way _best_ , don’t you?” During their time together they had been intimate with and without Loki’s illusory glamour, largely as his mood dictated – but there was no denying the spark as Stephen traced Loki’s marks and looked into his dark, red eyes.

“It’s not…” Stephen faltered. “… that’s not really fair, Loki.”

Loki grinned above him, pressing a fortifying kiss to Stephen’s cheek. “I don’t remember fairness factoring into this little exercise, doctor,” he teased. He dropped his hips, felt Stephen’s hard length against himself and hummed approvingly. “It’s alright,” he whispered, lips only a breath away from Stephen’s. “You can have me this way.”

Stephen drew back, running one hand through Loki’s hair as the other settled on his cheek.

“Can I?” Stephen asked, searching Loki’s eyes. “Can I have you, tonight?”

Loki hid his smile in the juncture of Strange’s neck and shoulder. “Tonight, you may have me any way you wish,” he murmured.

It was a small matter to get rid of their clothes, and within moments Stephen was the one looming over Loki with hungry eyes and a greedy mouth. Loki made a noise of protest when Stephen drew himself back, until he realized that he meant to attend to Loki’s needs, first.

Whatever Stephen might have lacked in dexterity with his hands, he more than made up for with his clever tongue. Loki had personally never been disappointed with Stephen’s manual dexterity, remarking upon it enthusiastically anytime Stephen had the strength and energy to give Loki his fingers. Today was just such a wonderful day: Stephen worked Loki slowly open while mercilessly licking and sucking at parts of him no one had seen in more years than Loki liked to ponder. He didn’t especially think about his earlier partners; they’d all been satisfactory in their own ways, had taught him general bedroom etiquette and helped him muddle through some of the unavoidable awkwardness inherent in sex. But, when compared to Stephen, they seemed all to fall away, until Stephen was all Loki could think of when it came to his pleasure.

The stretch was something Loki never got used to, and, if he was honest, he never really wanted to. Stephen was just the slightest bit too long to fit completely inside of Loki’s channel, which made the act all the more pleasantly overwhelming. Loki was told his anatomy most closely resembled that of a human female, but he had little care for this. He knew only that he and Stephen could join – _needed_ to be joined this way, as they were joined in so many others. It seemed impossible that Loki should feel so close, so totally possessed and still so totally in control of his body and mind. Stephen teased and appeased him in turns, breaking Loki down into the same heaving, moaning mess that Loki took such pride in bringing out of Stephen. Still another perk of consorting with a magic user was that Loki knew without doubt when Stephen was getting close. It served only to heighten his own desire, thrumming inside of him like a plucked string, releasing praise and pleas into the air, cajoling Stephen and urging him on.

“I’m there,” Loki gasped, gripping Stephen by his hip and hair. “I’m there, Stephen, come with me –”

As their shared peak crested over them and receded to small, pleasurable ripples, Stephen raised his head and kissed Loki’s nose before asserting, “You could _not_ have burned the temple down in that amount of time.”

Loki made an effort to look affronted beneath the afterglow. “I would remind you that _you_ were the one who suggested that little bit of role play, sorcerer.”

Yes, Loki decided as they lay there, laughing, sharing breath and riding their wave of satisfied need. There were certainly perks to loving a sorcerer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for taking this ride with me! This is the longest single work I might have ever produced, and it's the first I've ever sustained for this long. I hope you've enjoyed reading this half as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Your comments have been the light at the end of every tunnel of writer's block and trepidation I've had, and I'm so grateful for your support.
> 
> This is the end of this story, and I'm not sure what's next - but I've got a few things in mind ;) Thank you all again!


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